


The Ghosts of You and Me

by AllThatMatters



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Sex, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Fear, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hallucinations, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Oral Sex, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Questioning, Reality, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 73,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27510724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllThatMatters/pseuds/AllThatMatters
Summary: Four years ago, a two-strained, genetically engineered virus made its way over the face of the planet. Most of the population died outright, only a small percentage of people being immune to either one strain of the virus or the other; but there was a rare, tiny group of people who were immune entirely, and Ian Gallagher was one of them.What he hadn’t known at the time - what the world had failed to tell him before the televisions and radios went dark - was that those blessed with immunities to only one strain of the virus didn’t actually die when they inevitably became infected; instead, they became something else.Now, struggling with PTSD and faced with the knowledge that he may be the last living person in a world gone silent, Ian fights to stay alive amongst the things that dwell in the shadows as the thought of ending it all plays constantly on his mind...That is until one day, a gruff, unfamiliar voice comes over the radio, and makes him question everything he thought he knew about his own sanity and the end of the world.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 88
Kudos: 168





	1. Nobody But Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years ago, a two-strained, genetically engineered virus made its way over the face of the planet. Most of the population died outright, only a small percentage of people being immune to either one strain of the virus or the other; but there was a rare, tiny group of people who were immune entirely, and Ian Gallagher was one of them.  
> What he hadn’t known at the time - what the world had failed to tell him before the televisions and radios went dark - was that those blessed with immunities to only one strain of the virus didn’t actually die when they inevitably became infected; instead, they became something else.  
> Now, struggling with PTSD and faced with the knowledge that he may be the last living person in a world gone silent, Ian fights to stay alive amongst the things that dwell in the shadows as the thought of ending it all plays constantly on his mind...  
> That is until one day, a gruff, unfamiliar voice comes over the radio, and makes him question everything he thought he knew about his own sanity and the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story much more about human emotion and the human condition than it is a post-apocalyptic thriller; though it will have plenty of intense moments to keep you on your toes!  
> This is a forewarning that in this story, Ian deals with quite a few mental health issues - including PTSD and suicidal thoughts. If these are triggers for you personally, I ask you to please not read.  
> At the end of every chapter, I will be posting a song to go along with overall theme of Ian's life - music is something that I feel adds to the story, and I want to share it with you as deeply as I possibly can. At the end, there will be an entire playlist to go along with it.  
> Also, I will sometimes intersperse drawings.  
> Thank you ahead of time to anybody who is here. I hope you enjoy the ride, and please feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich for updates or excerpts!

FIRST DAY

_“IAN!? Lip was screaming in the darkness, his voice echoing eerily down through the cold, cement stairwell as Ian tried his best to work his way up to him, the flashlight on the end of his rifle casting sudden, bright bursts along the walls as he went, lighting up the shadows so he could see – so he could see if any of **T** **hem** were there, hiding; waiting._

_“Lip! Where are you!?” Ian could feel the heart within his chest, hammering its way through his ribcage, threatening to burst right out onto the floor; his fingers were shaking against the gun – against the trigger – and he had to struggle hard against the fear to keep from pulling it without meaning to._

_As if on cue, three gunshots rang out between his heaving breaths, so deafening in the close confines of the stairwell and his apparent proximity to his brother that Ian had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment – cover his ears with his biceps and shake his head harshly to expel the ringing that rattled his skull – before he could continue, swallowing the bile that had risen into his throat with every reverberation._

_Everything was too fucking loud – everything was too fucking loud and dark and chaotic and nothing felt okay anymore; this wasn’t how this was supposed to go…_

_“LIP!” Ian rounded the landing on the tenth floor, and he was going so fast in the darkness that he tripped suddenly over something he couldn’t see – something fleshy and solid – his body falling forward into the wall, the sound of his rifle dropping hard against the ground as he let go of it so he could reach his hands out and catch himself._

_The beam from his flashlight radiated out across the cement at his feet, revealing three fresh bodies slumped over each other on the floor, their sick, discoloured skin so pale in the light that Ian could see their purple veins below the surface._

_“Here, Ian” Lip said suddenly, causing Ian to jump a little in the abrupt, endless quiet; but a shaky, heavy breath born out of pure, utter relief escaped his mouth at the sweet sound, and he felt a heaviness float up from off his chest as he turned towards his brother…_

The sound of his watch woke him then, the high-pitched beeping startling him from his nightmare; there was sweat on his brow, Ian could feel it, cold and clammy against his skin; he could also feel the nausea that was crawling its way up from the pits of his stomach as his heart raced, the fear squeezing at him with everything it had, trying its best to break him apart entirely.

Ian sat up in the darkness, closing his eyes against the echoed memories of that day as he placed a hand over his chest – over his heart – and began to breathe, slowly, counting the seconds it took for the air to fill his lungs to bursting, before counting the ones it took for him to push it all back out again.

“You’re okay,” he whispered to himself between breaths – voice shaky, lips quivering. “You’re okay.” A tear formed somewhere in the corner of his eye then, and Ian wasn’t aware of its presence until it trickled warmly down his cheek, causing him to lift his hand from his ribs and brush it absently away. “You’re Ian Gallagher,” he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut so hard that it forced more tears to flow outwards as white dots danced behind his lids. “You’re Ian Gallagher, and you’re alive. You live at 2119 South Wallace in South Side, and you’re at home in your bed, and you’re alive.”

Ian repeated this once; twice; three times; his fevered, gulping breaths returning to normal as the heart within him slowed just a little bit more every time he spoke it, and the tears that fell down his cheek took with them the nausea and the panic that wracked him as he slowly came back to life.

Opening his eyes finally – his lids fluttering open with relief from the squeezing pressure – all Ian could see was the dim light of dawn that poured in through the tiny, pinprick hole between the two steel barricades welded over his window; it was an imperceptible flaw that had remained unfixed since Debbie had put them up all those years before, but watching the small specks of dust that danced their way through the errant beam like stars made Ian remember why he had never taken to mending it.

Sunlight always did more for him than breathing – than talking to himself – ever could; sunlight was the one thing that could dispel the darkness completely and keep him alive; and he didn’t just mean darkness as in the simple absence of light – he meant the memories, too – he meant the anxiety and the panic; and he didn’t just mean _keep him alive_ metaphorically, either – he meant it literally – he meant the sun was now the only thing besides himself that could protect him from the bad things that dwelled in the shadows when it disappeared beyond the horizon.

These days, the sun was Ian Gallagher’s last true guardian.

Ian swung his legs out of bed – muscles sore from spasms while he dreamed – and padded his way across his room, through the hall, and into the bathroom, the tiny route so familiar to him in the darkness that he didn’t need light to do it. Reaching up, Ian unlatched the steel shutter over the window by the tub, pulling it down and away from its reinforced frame, allowing sunlight to suddenly come pouring in through faded glass, making him squint blindly as he set the shutter down onto the ground with a hard thud before stepping in front of the mirror.

There was three week’s worth of beard growth on his chin, just a thick mass of half-inch, auburn hair wrapping its way around his jaw line, joining almost seamlessly with the hair on his head that was at least four inches longer, the ends curling outwards as the rest sat slicked back against his scalp from a few days worth of dirt and grime. The hair on his bare chest was slightly thicker than it used to be, but not much about it had changed over the passing years – it was still as sparse as it had been when he was twenty years old and had stopped shaving it altogether; when the world ended, there just didn’t seem to be a point.

Ian swallowed at the thought and brought his fingers up to his face, gently tapping the tired bags under his tear-stained eyes before pulling the skin down awkwardly, looking closely at the whites beneath his irises for no other reason than to prove to himself that he was still human.

Some days, he was no longer sure.

“Water,” he said then, absently – refocusing his attention to the long day he knew was ahead – and it never failed to make him feel alone when he heard his own voice, so deafening in the newfound silence of the world.

The silence. In all his days, Ian had never known anything like the absolute, never-ending silence.

Along the small wall in the bathroom beside the toilet, there was a line of five-gallon blue water jugs – a line that continued out the door and down the hall towards the back of the house; like the day before – like every day for nearly four years – Ian grabbed the closest one, pouring the water out into the two metal basins that sat under the window, filling them both halfway before resealing the jug, and putting it back in its place. As if it were second nature – which it was, really – Ian pushed open the window, letting what he thought was a late-May breeze drift its way in as he grabbed blindly for the matches on the back of the sink, eyeing the sky outside before turning on the propane to the small burners under the basins, and lighting them.

When the water had warmed enough, he flipped the propane off, dipping his cloth into the first one and rubbing the dwindling bar of soap back and forth along the fabric, causing suds to foam their way between his fingers and the smell of lavender to fill the room. Ian glanced absently over to the shelf above the toilet; there were at least ten bars of soap that he had scavenged from nearby stores stacked up there, along with about a dozen toothbrushes and equally as many tubes of toothpaste and razors, so he didn’t make a mental note to replenish.

Ian washed his face slowly, listening absently to the absolute quiet beyond the window before slipping out of his boxers and tossing them gently onto the seat of the toilet; he wiped the slow-cooling cloth along his shoulders, over his neck and chest, dipping it back in the basin for more soap before scrubbing harshly at the musty hair under his arms, rinsing everything bit by bit in the clean water of the second bucket.

Lifting his leg up onto the edge of the tub, Ian washed the most private parts of himself, ensuring the cloth had soaked for a minute or two in the heat before rubbing it down between his thighs and his cheeks, then up and along that most sensitive of places; there was a flutter in his stomach at the movement and the touch, that tiny, almost long-lost hint of need making itself known, and Ian wondered absently if he had it in him to take hold of himself right there in the morning light and release some of the things that weighed on him.

It wasn’t something he did much of anymore, but when he did, the sudden release of oxytocin gave him a few minutes of bliss, and for just a little while, he could escape.

This morning, Ian wanted to escape.

Tossing the cloth back into the basin, he wrapped the fingers of his right hand slowly around himself, squeezing with just enough pressure that he felt the jolts of warmth and electricity that sat tingling somewhere beneath the surface, just waiting to be coaxed forward; he closed his eyes to it, trying his best to imagine that it was someone else who gripped him – that it was a strong, unfamiliar, weathered hand – as he stroked once, twice, his mouth dropping open the smallest bit as all the blood within him began its journey south.

Ian focused hard, and he tried – he tried to lose himself in good feelings and heat as his breath escaped his lips in shaky little puffs – but he wasn’t exactly sure just how many pulls he got in before he suddenly stopped altogether, that image of a dark-haired stranger disappearing abruptly from his mind’s eye, floating away like a puff of smoke.

Sometimes, imagining someone else no longer worked.

Sometimes, thinking about those beautiful, dirty things that would never happen to him again brought Ian heartache instead of pleasure, and the warmth between his thighs was at once overshadowed by the cold emptiness inside his chest.

With a sigh, Ian let go, and felt a dull ache in his heart that he knew was guilt – guilt for trying to bring himself some semblance of peace when all around him were the empty bedrooms of those he loved, and those who would never know pleasure or heartbreak again.

Grabbing the brush from the windowsill, Ian combed it absently through his unkempt curls, pulling just a little bit harder than was necessary.

Washing his hair was something he only did every few days, and on those days he rejoiced in the small feeling of normalcy that returned as he bent forward – which he did now – letting his hair sink down into the water before blindly reaching out to grab at the shampoo beside him. He squeezed a dollop directly onto his head, and barely got his fingertips against his scalp when suddenly, without warning, it happened – the warmth of the water and the subtle action of washing his own hair bringing forth the almost-forgotten memory: he was tipping Franny’s tiny head back in the bathtub beside him, rinsing the shampoo from her barely-there wisps of hair as she smiled up at him with big, newborn eyes; in answering, Ian grabbed hard onto the edges of the metal basin, his own eyes squeezing shut once more as a harsh gasp escaped his lips at the panic that returned suddenly, tightening his chest as her tiny face tried to claw its way into his mind – tried to bring with it the faces of everyone else; but as always, Ian refused to let them in, biting hard enough into his tongue that he tasted blood while his forehead sat still submerged in the water, and he tried to focus on the abrupt sting of the physical pain instead of the mental ache that tormented him constantly.

They didn’t happen often, but when the flashbacks came, they crippled him.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he hissed, lips pressing against the steam at the surface of the water, causing tiny bubbles to tickle his lips. “Go away,” he pleaded, his voice going slightly higher in desperation. “Please. Go away…”

Ian breathed, and he breathed, and just like that – just like his dark-haired stranger – they were gone, and Ian could once again see nothing more but black behind his eyes; and when he finally risked opening them once more, he half-expected to see their reflections in the milky water beneath him.

Ian knew he had PTSD, some form of it at least; he hadn’t been diagnosed officially of course, seeing as it didn’t fully set in until after Lip had died – until two years after the world had ended and there weren’t any doctors to see him, even if he’d wanted them to; but Ian had learned enough about it while reading books as a teen, still hoping one day to make it to WestPoint. He was aware of the severity of the nightmares that plagued him, the hallucinations that would sometimes grip him in the middle of the day, the sleep that would sometimes elude him, the flashbacks that would seem so real that he was almost sure that they were, the anxiety that would sometimes consume him whole – consume him right alongside the depression and the coinciding feeling of complete hopelessness at the sudden, unwanted thought that he didn’t actually have what it took to survive in this world, even if his heart told him otherwise during peaceful moments on normal, better days.

There had been many times over the two years since Lip had left him alone that Ian had found himself lost inside his sickness, usually something so unbelievably small causing the sudden reemergence of a memory he didn’t even know he had, sending him off the deep end entirely; sometimes – like today – it was a ritual in the bathroom; sometimes it was simply walking up the front porch, or grabbing a plate from the kitchen cupboards; once, he even had a full-blown hallucination in a long-abandoned grocery store while on a run because he had simply looked at a tipped-over box of Cheerios, watching with a mingled feeling of disbelief and grief as Debbie came suddenly down the aisle towards him, a smile on her face as she asked – plain as day – if he had found the Frosted Flakes. Ian had ended up on the floor in the fetal position, hands over his ears as he rocked back and forth, unsure anymore what was real, what wasn’t, or if ghosts had finally come to haunt him.

At first, an episode could last for days – weeks even; Ian would spend hours upon hours in a safe corner of the house, or in his bed – images of everything terrible gnawing their way through his brain like maggots; he would hardly eat, and he would hardly sleep; but eventually, that darkness would recede just enough that he could pull himself up to standing, and drag himself out into the sun, basking in the warmth of the closest thing he had to happiness.

Then, one day a little over a year ago – when his last full-blown episode was coming to an end – Ian had crawled up out of that hole, dressed himself for a run, and spent nearly three whole days ransacking the nearest hospitals and psychologist offices before finally finding a small, dusty book on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and how to cope with it. It had been getting better since then, the relaxation and breathing techniques slowly beginning to take over while he was in the thick of it, his mind telling itself that this, too, shall pass, and - as it always did - the sun will return.

More than once, though – despite his progress – Ian had still considered taking his own life; what the fuck was the point in being alive anymore, anyways?

Day in, day out, all Ian did was survive – not _live_ , but survive.

Day in, day out, all Ian did was take on a vast, desolate world that no longer cared about the person he was or the person he might become.

Day in, day out, all Ian did was think about the time _before_ , and how there was never going to be an _after_ for him, no matter how hard he hoped.

Yet, somehow, he was still here, refastening the barricade over the bathroom window before strolling freshly dressed down the hallway, not looking at the closed bedroom doors of those he would never see again – avoiding the things he knew were triggers – before reaching the top of the stairs and bounding down them blindly in the dark of the sealed-up house – so sure of himself that he had never once had a misstep.

When he reached the living room, Ian took down the steel barriers from all the windows on the first floor, letting that same sunlight pour into not just his home, but all that he was, and he was sure in the moment that even though it was his family that gave him nightmares now, it was also them that kept him going.

They would want him to try, at least – he knew that much; and that was enough.

Ian glanced absently at the mantelpiece at the thought, eyeing the photographs that still laid face down against it, and thought maybe one day soon, he’d be able to stand them up to look at their faces once more.

~

Less than twenty minutes later, Ian was outside, basking in the warmth that healed the smallest parts of him as he collected eggs from the chicken coop at the far edge of the once-empty lot beside his house. Glancing absently towards the sidewalk – past what he assumed was probably the world’s smallest cornfield – Ian wondered how the Hell that of all the things he’d imagined becoming in his life, a farmer was basically now the closest thing he had to a job title; then again, he also supposed it was just one of the things that went hand in hand with being a _survivor_ , which he considered himself to be more than anything else.

On the other side of the street, Ian could just make out the dead, rusted cars of his former neighbours over the stalks of corn that were beginning to grow tall, and he knew without actually having to check that none of them were ever going to start again, the gas in their tanks long since turned to useless jelly.

In the beginning – when engines had still roared to life and there were still a few faces to be seen – he and Lip had ventured with broken spirits to the farms that rested quietly beyond the city limits, knowing full-well that they were now in it alone for the long haul, and that first and foremost, they needed a plan; so they’d stuffed whatever they could find on those godforsaken farms into the back of their stolen truck – seeds, soil, equipment, the fucking chickens – at one point, even considering taking a few solitary pigs that wandered around their paddock and putting a pen up in the empty lot Ian stood in now – in the same space his tiny field of corn now occupied; but last minute they had decided against it; keeping pigs would be like baiting the waters – they were just too fucking loud, and they couldn’t have sound once the sun set.

The fence on the other side of the house – the fence that once divided their property from the empty house beside them – had been knocked down years ago; Lip had spent weeks creating one massive garden that extended to the edge of Kev and V’s place, reading as many books as he could on horticulture – even going so far as to build a greenhouse by the alley for deep Chicago winters – and if Ian ever only knew one thing for sure in this life, it was that he knew without a doubt he would be forever grateful for the fact that he was blessed to have a genius for a brother.

Ian had considered making the garden even bigger at one point – had considered adding more crop for canning; but after losing Lip, he just didn’t see the point; more than that, maybe, he didn’t think he could bring himself to knock down that second fence and stand in the shadow of Kev and V’s house without having an episode, so he avoided it altogether, preferring to stay in the dark, familiar feelings of his own home – a home that was both the angel and the devil on his shoulders, bringing him just as much peace as it did heartbreak.

“Just the three, today, Fiona,” he sighed absently, caressing the grey-brown feathers of his favourite hen with the back of his index finger as he tucked the eggs into the old t-shirt hanging around him like a sling. “I have to make a run into the city later. An overnight run…” Ian paused, swallowing the nerves that came with the thought. “You know how much I hate those, Debs.” He hadn’t named the five chickens after his family or anything, he just said their names out loud sometimes, like maybe they were still there beside him, listening.

One of the tips in the book he had commandeered was how finding strength and stability in confiding in someone you trusted was a good touchstone to hold onto; considering there were no longer any other people anywhere, Ian took to talking to the chickens.

“I saw Fran this morning,” he mumbled then, biting at the corner of his lip to keep from choking on her name. “She was just a baby still, like the last time…” he coughed, cleared his throat, feeling the emotion scale his walls. “Like the last time I saw her. She smiled up at me, and at least that’s a little something happy, right?”

As always – much to Ian’s disappointment – the chickens didn’t answer, so he backed out of the coop, shutting the door and refastening the locks behind him before climbing up onto the back porch, lighting the other propane burner that sat there, and sliding a pan out from the makeshift shelf above it; he poured a small dollop of bottled oil onto its weathered surface and cracked the eggs in.

Ian liked eating outside – his world feeling so much bigger now than it ever had during his first twenty years of life – and it was for that reason that he had set up his own tiny kitchen on that back porch, complete with shelves, dishes, spices, and cutlery; it also meant he could spend less time inside, where his family was.

As the eggs sizzled, making his stomach growl, Ian cut thin chunks off of the green onion he had picked from the garden the day before, the blade of the knife pressing against the hardened pad of his thumb with every slice, each little piece falling in amongst the scramble to give it a little extra something before he threw in a dash of salt. It was always so surreal to him how such small things now took up so much of his time, like he knew he had decades of it to waste, so he spent it all taking extra care, just to squander away a few more seconds.

Ian eyed the sky, absently stirring as he watched a single cloud float its way overhead, followed by a flock of birds heading towards the empty city centre, when a sudden sound from the pathway beside the house caught his attention then – the slight rustling of overgrown grass and the overturning of a pebble or two – and Ian stood at once, picking his rifle up from off the hook at the back door behind him, aiming it down the steps, and his heart rate picked up only the slightest bit as his finger hovered ready over the trigger; it was daytime – which meant it couldn’t be one of _Them_ – but still, even after all this time, Ian worried; he worried that one day the virus would mutate once more without his knowing it, and they’d finally come for him in the sun…

and still, even after all this time, Ian hoped; he hoped that maybe one day the world would give him a fucking break – would _give_ him something for once instead of taking – and another living person would walk around that corner…

A solitary deer stepped suddenly out into view then instead, and a feeling of thankfulness and disappointment mingled awkwardly in Ian’s chest as it froze abruptly, obviously catching his scent before turning its gaze towards him. They stared at each other there in the morning light – feral, near-black eyes gazing curiously back into equally as feral green ones – and Ian assumed it was probably just as surprised to see him standing there as he would be to see another living soul. Ian lowered his gun, watching quietly as the doe turned away then, deciding he obviously wasn’t a threat as she strolled forward like she didn’t have a care in the world, her tail flicking white against the air, her nose stretching closer and closer towards the early flowers on Ian’s tomato plants.

“Hey,” he called, startling her from the silence of their world, causing her head to snap back towards him, ears swiveling to focus on the unfamiliar sound. “Not today. Sorry.” He stomped hard on the wooden boards beneath his feet then, the loud noise causing her to shift on a dime, and her large body cleared the green-bean bushes in a single bound before she darted away down the alley, hooves clicking awkwardly on degrading pavement.

Ian sniffed loudly in the quiet – feeling more alone suddenly at her leaving – and made a mental note to make some sort of scarecrow maybe – something with his scent, so he didn’t wake up one morning to find a whole herd mowing down the last remaining pieces of his brother that still lived.

~

Slipping two extra magazines for his gun – a Sig Sauer he had stolen from the army – into his backpack, Ian lifted it, testing the weight; his bag was always so fucking _heavy_ when he went on overnight runs into the city, despite trying, over time, to limit what it was he actually needed with him. These were his least favourite kinds of runs – not just because being away from home in the darkness was always a terrifying fucking gamble, but because he also had so much more shit to carry with him; unfortunately for Ian however, he needed supplies now – his first aid kit was running seriously low on bandages, and he had absolutely nothing in the way of sutures or needles or antibiotics should something happen that required more than some ointment and a Band-Aid; more importantly, the scope on his hunting rifle had cracked when he’d made one of the worst mistakes you could possibly make in this new life: he’d gotten careless, deciding to strap it to his backpack in a hurry after bringing down his own deer only a few weeks before, instead of taking the time to secure it properly, and now he was paying the price by having to go to that godforsaken military outpost, where he hoped he could find another fairly quickly.

Most runs he could do in an afternoon and be back before sunset – but these runs always took longer, because it required a lot of searching, a lot of walking, and a lot of never actually knowing if you were going to find what it is you were looking for; it saved him time, it saved him energy, and it saved him food if he did it all in a single trip, so Ian rolled his army-issued sleeping bag up into a tight roll and fastened it securely to the front of his bag, triple-checking the knots before he grabbed his brown leather jacket off the hook by the front door, reattached the window barricades, and strolled out into the unknown.

~

Ian adjusted the tactical holster that was clipped around his chest, glancing down absently to make sure the Sig Sauer was still there – patting at his hip to check for his hunting knife – before he slung the rifle from off his shoulder, jumping down onto the L tracks of the Orange Line at the nearest station a few blocks from home, and chambering a round just in case.

It was easier to take the tracks than the streets – it saved an indescribable amount of time, being able to walk as the crow flies; plus, it put Ian far up above the ground, giving him a bird’s-eye-view of the world around him. Ian liked being up there – he felt safe, despite being so out in the open; there were no shadows – no spaces for Them to hide – and any danger that came his way, he would see from a mile away.

As he walked, Ian’s heavy boots crunched hard against the gravel between the tracks, giving an actual sound to his journey that comforted him – gave him something to focus on besides the heart that beat warily inside his chest as he eyed the towers of the Windy City before him – towers that he knew weren’t as empty as they appeared.

They stayed in the city, because the suburbs were just too bright, Ian thought – the houses were just too small with too many windows. Sure, he had come across a few over the years, stranded in the dank basements of the homes They once occupied as living people, but most of Them were in the city now, congregating in shadows like bats in a cave, and Ian hated that he was heading towards Them instead of away.

Ian walked the line northeast, glancing towards the sky as a murmuration of starlings danced suddenly overhead – a massive, undulating cloud of tiny black bodies that floated ethereal on the breeze – and all Ian could hear was the whisper of a thousand beating wings as he eventually curved his way north past Halstead station, heading in to the city’s core.

There was a train stopped dead on the lines in Near South Side – just a metal casket containing nothing more than memories; at one time, it had gotten Ian from point A to point B, but now, it was simply a hindrance, stopping him from getting to where it was he was going.

With all his gear, there just wasn’t enough room to sneak his way by.

Ian slung the rifle back onto his shoulder before reaching down and lifting the ladder he had placed there years ago, leaning it up against the end of the train car so he could climb up onto its rusting roof, ensuring his feet were stable on the uneven surface before hoisting the ladder up with him and tip-toeing carefully along the entirety of the train until he reached the other side; when he did, he slipped the ladder off the end once more, climbing his way back down onto the tracks and leaving the ladder off in the shade so he could grab it up once more on his return journey.

The closer Ian got to the city, the more on edge he became, and when that first tower finally cut a shadow across the lines, Ian felt suddenly like he was no longer alone, which he guessed technically, he wasn’t.

They were there, even if he couldn’t see Them.

Ian raised his gun slightly higher against his shoulder; he knew he was safe – knew they wouldn’t step foot outside until the sun went down – but it didn’t stop his palms from sweating against the steel – didn’t stop his breath from coming out in long, audible drags as he tried to calm his heart just as much as his mind.

Ian finally jumped up onto the platform from the tracks at Washington/Wabash and made his way hurriedly down the stairs to street level, his boots clunking so loud on the pavement that it would have worried him if it weren’t almost mid-day.

Out of nothing more than fear and basic instinct, Ian eyed every window as he went – he eyed every door, every alley, and every blade of fucking grass that shifted slightly in the breeze as he continued north towards the river, his gun held up at the ready while he weaved his way between the abandoned cars that sat forever still in the streets; it was like the entire city itself was a graveyard, and those cars were the tombstones – eternal reminders that once, there had been life here.

Not that there wasn’t really life anymore, Ian supposed, just a different kind; the weeds and plants that had broken their way through cracked cement grew tall, no longer anyone around to cut them down; seeds from all over floated in on unhindered winds, planting themselves in any wedge of viable dirt they could find, and now there were wildflowers that grew along the sidewalks – wildflowers that grew out of garbage bins and against rubber tires forever frozen in place.

Occasionally, Ian would see things on those downtown streets that he never thought he’d see there in his life. Once – on a late afternoon the previous summer – Ian had been making his way back towards the L station after a run when movement ahead of him had caught his eye; he’d held his gun up on impulse, and remembered standing stock still in complete bewilderment as a black bear came out from the shadows of an alley, padding its way into the middle of the street before turning to look at him, Ian’s face going soft in the half-light; and just like the deer that morning, it amazed him how these things – these wild beings that had once looked at people with so much fear and trepidation – now eyed him with nothing more than complete indifference, as if Ian was just another creature, trying to survive.

Which he was.

As Ian stepped onto the bridge over the river on North Wabash Avenue, the sun was just reaching its highest point in the sky, which meant Ian was starting to sweat a little beneath his jacket in the rising heat, but it also meant that it was time. He stopped, a welcome breeze ruffling through the long hair on his head then as it drifted its way across the water, causing dead leaves and the occasional piece of plastic to tumble their way up over the metal railings and off into nothingness as he glanced at the towers around him, so eerily quiet that it still made his hairs rise after all this time.

Ian swung his backpack down from off his shoulders and crouched there in the middle of the bridge in the high-noon sun, undoing the zipper so he could pull out one of the walkie-talkies he had shoved inside.

Flipping it on to channel one – just like he did every single day at noon – Ian pressed the button, a tiny beep letting him know it was ready.

He breathed for a moment, that small ignition of a hopeful spark burning suddenly in his chest – just like it did every single day at noon – as he wondered if maybe, just maybe, today was going to be the day, even though somewhere deep down inside his bones, he knew that he doubted it.

“Hello?” he said, letting go of the button so he could clear his throat before continuing. “Hello? Is there anybody listening?”

Ian’s voice carried out across the water – through the silent streets – and he closed his eyes then as he heard the familiar, unwelcome sound of the sudden rustling of bodies inside the buildings around him, those dark places coming abruptly to life as he spoke. Ian bit into his lip as he listened, a noise escaping his chest as he heard Them – as he heard Them reacting to the sound of his voice in the shadows of the rooms that sat seemingly infinite around him; They sounded like normal people having distant conversations in the darkness, except They no longer spoke words – They just made sounds in familiar tones, and whether They understood each other, Ian didn’t actually know – he just knew that sound seemed to be what attracted Them more than anything, their human eyes completely inadequate in the blackness They thrived in.

Ian took a deep breath in through his nose, rubbing the sweat from his shaking hand along his jeans before his eyes finally reopened to the sun – that reassuring sun – and he refocused on the task at hand.

Nothing but static came back through the speaker, the high-pitched hiss so out-of-place amongst the quietness of the breeze and the hushed whispers of Them that it made him close his eyes once more, as if by doing so, he could hear through the wavelengths.

“My name is Ian Gallagher,” he sniffed, rubbing a finger along his tight bottom lip. “I am a survivor living in Chicago. Is there anybody else out there?” Ian waited. “I will be broadcasting every day at noon. Please, if you can hear me, let me know.”

Again, there was nothing; just the white noise of solitude that dimmed that tiny ember of hope in his chest the tiniest bit before he switched it to channel two.

“Hello?” he started again, but wasn’t exactly sure why; he knew full-well today wasn’t going to be special – it was going to be just like every other fucking day before.

By the time he reached channel fifteen, that ember was gone entirely, and there was no warmth being emitted in his ribcage as hope died slowly away, like it always did.

“My name is Ian Gallagher,” he sighed, and by now, he knew he sounded fucking fed up. “Is there anybody out there?”

Ian held the walkie closer to his ear, listening – listening for tiny voices in the white noise – and he knew that if he focused too hard, he would start to hear things that weren’t actually there at all.

An errant burst of static came suddenly through the speaker then – as if it had just been waiting for him to lean in – and Ian winced at the sudden loudness of it, holding the radio out and away from his head in annoyance.

“Fuuuck,” he hissed, wiggling a finger in his ear to make sure he wasn’t deaf. The same thing had happened the day before, and he wondered absently if maybe the batteries were beginning to die, or if there was just a random radio wave pulsing somewhere through space that simply felt like fucking with him.

“Hello?” he said again, one last time – more out of curiosity than anything else – but when nothing else changed, he laid his fingers on the knob, and was about to turn it to the next channel when the static abruptly cut out entirely – the radio going absolutely silent in his sweating hands – causing Ian’s heart to hammer in his chest as his blood ran cold; and for just a second, he braced himself against the pavement – half-expecting a voice to actually come through – before the static picked right back up again, and he was still entirely alone.

The more Ian had talked, the more restless They had become – They knew he was there, and Ian knew that They were annoyed They couldn’t get to him. He could hear the sounds of chairs and tables shifting from places above him – from places beside him; he could hear the sounds of doors slamming, and the sounds of things breaking.

Ian flipped the walkie off – a long hiss of air escaping his nose in defeat – and slipped it back into his backpack, sliding out the portable CD player he always kept with him and clicking it on; he didn’t like using it while he walked – didn’t like wasting the batteries like that – but the hushed sounds around him made his skin crawl – made the ghosts of memories start to play on the edges of his mind, which only made his chest tighten as the anxiety and panic knocked at his door; but Ian couldn’t let it in – not here, not right now.

So he slipped the earbuds into his ears, turning the volume up all the way so he could drown out the madness as he hoisted his bag back over his shoulders, raised his gun once more, and spared only a single glance up at the windows that reflected back the clear blue sky, wondering just how many of Them were up there, waiting, before setting off once more.

~

The military outpost had basically been the entirety of the Navy Pier, and it made sense to Ian – it was the single most accessible place in the city. Popping his earbuds out, Ian shoved his CD player back into his bag before hopping over the barbed wire barricade and strolling down towards the Ferris wheel, its centre spoke still adorned with the rainbow colours of Pride Week, which somehow never failed to make Ian _almost_ smile – he appreciated the show of solidarity, but really, who the fuck was going to judge him now? 

Ian eyed the empty storefronts and restaurants that lined the pier as he walked, closing his eyes every now and then to remember the sounds of people that had once echoed out across the waves – the sounds of happy conversations as drunken adults sipped their cocktails; the sounds of euphoric laughter as children played games.

Now there was nothing more than the lapping sounds of water as it bit at the cement below his feet.

There was an abandoned Navy frigate still moored to the end of the pier, a daunting remnant from a time when the virus had first struck and martial law had been enforced – when ships and trucks and planes carried soldiers to every major city in the country; but now – just like everything else – it was abandoned, its hull battered and scarred from slamming against the pier during winter squalls that crashed waves hard against the shore. Ian had never ventured inside it – the layout was too unfamiliar, the darkness inside too deep and too vast; but sometimes, he wondered about it – wondered what kind of things sat within it, and if any of it was salvageable, should the need ever arise.

Ian stood in its shadow and glanced up at the port side, the smell of the water on the wind over Lake Michigan filling his lungs for one last, brief second of calm before he turned, heading once more to the Aon Grand Ballroom and the chaos it held within its walls.

When he reached the doors, Ian stopped, sliding a hand into his jacket pocket and pulling out the old Pink Floyd t-shirt that had belonged to his brother and tying it around his face, the smell of harvested lavender from his garden wafting suddenly into his nostrils then from the small pocket he had sewn into it for this exact occasion.

He was going to need it.

Pushing the doors open, Ian’s eyes began to sting at once from the smell that still managed to seep – just a little – through the fabric and flowers over his face, and he swallowed a gag that forced its way up his throat at nothing more than the mere thought of what was coming.

The venue – once the pinnacle of a good time on the eastern shore – was now packed to the brim with the abandoned personal effects of whatever soldiers had been stationed there before the world fucking ended, the massive domed ceiling over Ian’s head providing shelter for the cots and sleeping bags that now sat cold, dusty, and empty on the floor, personal packs full of personal things sitting neatly beside them, a different surname sewn onto each one.

Even though he had seen it all before, Ian still felt his heart skip a beat at the image, imagining once more his own name being sewn onto the front patch of one of those godforsaken backpacks – backpacks that he had never once considered going through; for some reason, that wasn’t a line he was willing to cross.

There were crates upon crates of food rations lining the walls, and maybe Ian Gallagher didn’t know much about the end of humanity, but at least he knew he’d never go hungry. Glancing around, Ian eyed them all one by one, mentally counting through them in his head – looking at the ripped-open tops of each box – reassuring himself that he had, in fact, gone through every single one of those crates already a few years before, with Lip by his side, and he knew without having to check again that nothing he needed was in there.

Turning, Ian took a deep, sweet breath of lavender before strolling back down through the long, window-filled hallway, kicking absently through the random garbage that was scattered on the floor in the bright sunlight – all of it still intact after years indoors – as the smell began to get stronger – his eyes watering more and more with every step.

The Festival Hall was at the other end of the mezzanine; as Ian approached the entrance, he stopped once more to compose himself, glancing down at his boots and shaking the thoughts from his head so that there was nothing in it but readiness. When he finally pushed open the doors, he realized absently that even after all this time, the sight and the smell never failed to take his breath away – literally.

Ian gagged hard, his eyes squeezing closed as he tried to hold his breath, inhaling tiny, almost imperceptible little puffs through his nose as he choked.

The Festival Hall had been used as a medical bay before the military had evacuated, and the bodies of those that hadn’t made it out of the city sat idle and still inside plastic bags that lined the walls on either side of him; Ian hated it here, which is why he cursed himself once more for being so fucking careless.

Lip had grabbed his arm the first time they had come to this room, pulling him back and away from the doors, leaving the three crates that Ian knew sat at the far end of the Hall untouched, and unchecked.

Until now.

Looking to his left or to his right was out of the question – looking at those bags that his mind imagined held the liquefied bodies of his siblings was out of the question – so Ian eyed the floor instead and went forward, making his way towards the far end of the space – towards those crates – as he struggled against burning lungs, trying to hold his breath for as long as he could without passing out entirely.

Jamming his knife into the wooden lid, Ian pried the first box open as he knelt next to it on the floor, knees rubbing awkwardly against the cold stone as he focused on nothing more than getting the fuck out of there as fast as he could; inside – stacked brick to brick – was enough C-4 explosive to probably bring down the entire building and then some; Ian whistled low and long, as best he could under the t-shirt wrapped around his face, and made a mental note to never open that crate again unless absolutely necessary; he had C-4 already – had it stored in a house down the block in case of emergencies – but that was enough; he didn’t need the worry or the hassle of having to somehow transport more back to South Side, the thought of exploding into dust playing constantly on his mind as he went.

 _That would be a quick way to go, though_ , he thought absently, as the tiny hint of a smile pulled up the corners of his lips for the first time that day, and Ian added _explosives_ to his mental list of ways to kill himself should he finally just find the will to do it.

The second crate held nothing beyond more food rations, but Ian sat back hard on his heels when he opened the last, that small smile spreading across the entirety of his face as he stared down into a box filled to the brim with medical kits. Ian closed his eyes and tilted his head back, a sigh of relief escaping his lips as he silently thanked whatever Gods may be before gagging suddenly at the accidental inhaling of breath, and he reached quickly into the crate in answering, taking out three of the kits before jogging over to his backpack as fast as his body would allow him to go and proceeding to pull out the massive duffle bag he had rolled up and put inside.

Ian stuffed the medic kits into it and slung it up over his shoulder with his backpack in a single go, making his way swiftly back out to the fresher air, thankful as fuck he could be rid of this place once and for all.

Despite all his time alone in the city, Ian hadn’t gone through everything; it was impossible – there was just too much; he had what he needed, though, and – despite the paranoia that sometimes wracked him at the thought of being caught out with nothing to save him – that was enough. Now, despite this, Ian made his way along the pier, hopping up into the back of one empty vehicle after another, going through the contents of whatever had been left behind; he still needed a scope for his rifle, and the abandoned jeeps and trucks were the only things left by the water that he’d never actually checked.

Most of them held nothing more than canisters of gasoline and emptiness – two things that were entirely of no use to him anymore; but in the fourth truck there was a small box of gun magazines that Ian knew from experience were for the standard issue M4 Carbine rifle – which would be great, he thought absently, if he actually had the fucking gun to go with it.

~

Hours had been spent in the sunshine on the pier by the time Ian jumped up into the last jeep, pulling back the forest-green canvas flap with hardly any hope left to hold onto as he peered inside; he wasn’t expecting anything different from the others – was expecting more of the same useless shit – but Ian stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a soldier laying face-down the ground, his body almost entirely decomposed, and luckily, the smell had long since disappeared.

Ian crouched in the opening at the end of the truck, placing his tightened fist against his lips as he stared; he had gotten used to seeing dead bodies – he came across them all the time on runs, when he’d go into suburban houses in the middle of the day just to see what he could find; but just because he had gotten used to it, didn’t mean it made it any easier.

Ian stood, sniffing loudly against the eerie quiet as he set the duffle on the ground, stepping slowly towards the corpse as if one loud misstep might actually wake it from the dead. When he got close enough, Ian could just make out the details in the back shadows of the truck bed from the little amount of light that seeped in through the open flap, and his heart stuttered in his chest when he saw that there, on the ground beside the body, was an M4 Carbine rifle, the man’s hand stretching outwards as if reaching for it – as if even in death, he wasn’t going to abandon his weapon. The gun already had a scope on it, and even though it wasn’t great for long-distance shooting, Ian didn’t think it mattered much; hunting was a pretty easy sport now, considering there were no longer things that lived that feared him.

Ian _almost_ wondered if today was just going to be one of those days where everything was going to work out in his favour; he didn’t trust days like that really – considering the day he had lost Lip had been one of those days – but with an entire night in downtown Chicago still ahead of him, the last thing he wanted to do was jinx his good fucking luck.

“Sorry,” Ian whispered then, not looking directly at the man as he reached down and took the gun. “But I need this more than you do.”

Ian turned on a dime, grabbing his duffle up from off the floor before hopping back down into the sun; he took a deep breath before giving the weapon a once over; it seemed alright, he thought, and later - when he was safe above the ground - he could strip it – could clean it and make sure there were no faults after years of sitting unused.

Glancing at the sky then, Ian was suddenly reminded of the time as a single crow swooped low overhead, riding the beginning glow of sunset as the sun began to move further towards the western horizon, and Ian knew it was time to go.

Slinging the gun over his shoulder beside his rifle, Ian jogged back to that fourth truck, climbing up inside and grabbing as many of the magazines as he could before slipping them into the duffle alongside the medic kits, and heading back into the city, a sheen of sweat forming on his palms and his brow that had absolutely nothing to do with the heat.

~

There were over twenty-one hundred stairs to the observation deck in Willis Tower; Ian knew, because he’d counted them more than once; the observation deck was on the 103rd floor, which is where Ian headed now, his breath coming hard and fast as he lugged everything up one flight at a time.

He knew he could stay somewhere easier if he wished – in another building, closer to the ground; but he and Lip had cleared Willis Tower years ago, ensuring the doors were always locked and chained behind them when they left, so that They couldn’t get in, even if They’d wanted to.

Despite it, Ian always did a once-over anyways, double-checking the ground-floor windows – checking the glass and the chains on the door – to make sure nothing had been broken; and only when he was completely satisfied did Ian take out his keys to the padlocks and venture inside, placing those very same chains on the inside of the doors behind him and pulling at them once, twice, three times to make sure they were secure, before heading up the stairwell.

Sure, Ian supposed he could also stay on a lower floor if he wanted to, but the observation deck wasn’t just safe, it was a place that held something special inside of him; he couldn’t say for sure exactly what it was, but as he came finally to that room now – heaving breaths in fired lungs as his legs absolutely burned from the overexerted muscles within him – Ian thought maybe it had something to do with being so high above the earth, like maybe somehow, that put him closer to Heaven – if there was such a thing; like maybe if he pushed himself up on tip-toes and extended his hand, he could touch the ones he loved.

A hard breeze came suddenly in through the open window, so strong this far above the ground that it caused Ian’s hair to wrap wildly around his face. The glass had been intact for years – built to forever withstand the ever-changing winds on the shores of the Great Lakes – that was until last summer when – on the same day Ian had seen that bear – he had shot out the glass in a haze of bullets, fully intending to step off that ledge into nothingness and watch the blue waters of Lake Michigan pass him by on his way down before he could finally leave this godforsaken place for good – before he could finally rest.

Obviously, he had changed his mind; and he still wondered to this day if maybe that bear had come out of nowhere to look at him in that moment just to let him know that he _was_ still alive – that he was still a part of _something_ , no matter how big or how small that _thing_ might be.

Ian thought maybe that bear had looked him in the eye that day and said without words that Ian had a reason; he just didn’t know it yet.

Setting his stuff down inside the sunlit room that was entirely tinted glass, Ian strolled quickly back to the stairwell, wrapping another chain around the handles of the exit door and triple-checking this one, too, before he padlocked it and stepped back, placing his hands on his hips for a second as he looked at that single piece of steel that separated him from everything else. Ian took a series of long, comforting breaths, counting the seconds that passed him by – letting it calm his soul – before he lifted his right hand and pressed his palm gently against the door.

“Just one night,” he whispered to the cold metal, and hoped it could handle it.

The observation deck was completely lit up like warm gold, so bright as the sun lowered itself in the west that Ian had to squint against it as he leaned down, opening his bag and pulling out the can of Campbell’s soup he had brought himself for dinner, along with three pieces of dried venison from the smoking shed out back.

Slicing into the can with his knife, Ian got just enough of the top open that he could pry it back with weathered hands and sip at it absently like it was nothing more than water as he eyed the horizon beyond the skyscrapers that stood around him like static.

There was a cargo ship floating absently out on the Lake, and Ian watched it drift absently – completely unmanned – wondering just where it had come from, and whereabouts it might end up; these days, Ian wondered that about a lot of things he saw – he had wondered it about the deer that very morning; he had wondered it about the leaves that drifted over the edge of North Wabash bridge; he had wondered it about the bones of that soldier; and mostly, he wondered it about himself.

~

When he was full and satisfied, Ian pulled his CD player back out of is backpack, slipping the earbuds once more into his ears as he strode across the room towards the blown out window, the hiss of wind that came through it so loud that it nearly drowned his music out entirely. As he neared the edge, Ian slowed to a crawl, positive that if he went too fast, he might just slip off after all – the one time he didn’t actually mean to – and when his nerves finally got the best of him then, Ian sat down onto the floor, scooting himself forward inch by inch – the hardened souls of his boots squeaking awkwardly on the tiles – until he was right at the edge.

Ian stopped, leaning his head forward a bit so he could see down, down the side of the building to the idle cars below, and a long hiss of air escaped his lips then as he let the vertigo and imbalance inside his head send a wave of nausea throughout him, making him acutely aware of everything that surrounded him in the moment, as if suddenly, the world were in HD.

After what seemed like an eternity, Ian finally bit his lip, and did it – he scooted forward as far as he could go, his feet slipping off the lip until he was seated on the edge of the fucking world – his legs dangling 103 stories above the earth – and for the first time in a long time, Ian actually felt free.

Listening to music as he watched the sun sink lower and lower in the sky, Ian sat there for at least an hour, trying not to think about what he knew was coming as he leaned occasionally away from the wind that whipped against him – wind that sometimes made him reach out and grab hard to the ground beside him, worried he might just blow away in the breeze if he wasn’t careful.

_Carl would love this_ , Ian thought suddenly, closing his eyes as the last rays of the day burned their way across his lids. Carl wouldn’t be scared, he knew – he’d probably be leaning over the edge, screaming something ridiculous like _‘I’m king of the fucking world!’_ as passersby below looked up at him with shocked faces, wondering absently if he was just some crazy jumper, about to give them all the worst kind of show.

Lip would be right beside him, smoking; his big brother would be looking out at that same horizon, telling Ian something existential, making the soul within him feel whole again – like it had a purpose – before blindly handing him his cigarette, which they would share, the wind blowing smoke wildly around their faces as they laughed at nothing more than their own craziness.

Debbie would be back against the wall; Ian would try to coax her forward, telling her it was okay, that he wouldn’t scare her by pretending to push her off the edge - which he _would_ actually do anyways, because he loved her, and would want to make her laugh; and she _would_ come forward eventually, though just enough that she could lean her head forward – arms splayed out to her sides as if holding her in place – and see the ground below for half a second before turning and running back towards the stairs, mumbling something like, _‘Nope, fuck that, Ian, that’s enough!’_

Liam wouldn’t say anything; he’d just crawl up behind Ian on his hands and knees, slowly, a little afraid of the height, but knowing without a doubt in his mind that Ian was there to catch him should he fall. Liam would crawl up behind him on hands and knees and put his chin on Ian’s shoulder, look out at the world and simply take it all in, as if it were some sort of miracle, because that’s what Liam did best.

Fiona. Fiona would have strolled alone into that room without a second of hesitation; she would have walked right over to that open window, she would have stepped right off the edge into nothingness, and she would have kept walking – as if suspended by invisible wires – because she was a fucking angel, and her place was always in the clouds.

Ian felt a tear roll suddenly down his cheek then as a feeling like loss clawed its way up his throat, and he opened his eyes once more, letting the memories of them drift quietly away on the breeze as the sun blinked suddenly in the sky, and disappeared from existence.

Ian sucked in a breath at the sudden darkness and held it, pulling the earbuds slowly from his ears with shaking hands so he could hear as he waited.

At first it was the sound of distant movement – the soft brushing sound of clothes like the beating of starling wings as they had soared above him that afternoon; but then, it evolved into the rushing sound of footsteps, the echo of one turning into the echo of ten, then twenty, a hundred, and Ian glanced downwards towards the ground, just in time to see Them emerge from their places in the shadows, pouring out onto the street like wasps in a cut-down hive.

Ian pulled his feet inside at once, scrambling over to his bag in the corner and tossing his CD player down into the open flap before grabbing the M4 up from off the floor; there was just enough subtle light left in the sky that he had it stripped within a minute, glancing over it in the failing dusk as he wiped it down, double checked the mechanisms, and reassembled it in record time, locking a magazine into place before grabbing his flashlight, just in case.

Absently, Ian chastised himself for not doing it all sooner as he felt for the knife at his waist, his fingers fluttering over the handle in reassurance as the noise outside became suddenly louder, their groaning voices merging together into one screaming hum of madness as if just the sounds of each other excited them as they listened – listened for _something_ – for _anything_ – to eat, to rip apart, to turn into one of Them.

Ian didn’t know how they could hear anything beyond themselves, but they could – he knew they could.

Grabbing his rifle up from off the ground, Ian attached his flashlight to the barrel, but didn’t dare turn it on as he scurried over to the wall across from the entrance of the observation deck, his heart hammering in his chest as he pushed himself up so hard against the glass that he was afraid he might just break through it.

Air was escaping shakily through his parted lips as he eyed that darkened hallway; he knew he’d probably be safe – They couldn’t hear him up here, They couldn’t smell him, and as long as he kept that flashlight off, They wouldn’t see him, either; mostly, They couldn’t get through that godforsaken chain, he was sure of it; because if They hadn’t attempted it after four years, They sure as shit weren’t going to try it now.

They were way too far gone to be anything close to coordinated.

Still, Ian sat there, and he waited, the familiar sounds from below causing demons to chew their way into his brain, and he put his hands over his ears then in answering, closing his eyes to the blackness and humming loudly to himself for what seemed like hours, just waiting for something to come for him in the shadows.

Eventually though, when Ian’s heartbeat finally slowed in the middle of the night – when a million shining stars sat suspended overhead beside a moon that lit the world snowy white – he raised himself up from his place on the floor, gripping those guns in both his hands and never letting them slip from his grasp as he strode back across the room and untied his sleeping bag from his backpack.

Climbing his way inside – the warmth only a small comfort from the coldness that still crept through him – Ian laid down with his head facing that doorway, finally releasing the guns from his grip as he set them there beside him on the tiles within reaching distance, and eventually drifted off into dreams as the sound of the end of the world continued to echo its way up through that broken window, giving life to the dark things in his mind that turned dreams into nightmares.

DAY TWO

Ian awoke on his own this time, having turned off the alarm on his watch so he could sleep in past dawn for once; this time though, no sweat or fear accompanied his waking; he was exhausted from a restless sleep, sure – and his hand ached from the death-grip he’d unknowingly kept on his gun at all hours of the night – but it was morning, and the rays of the sun were creeping up the glass windows of the city around him, illuminating not just the room, but the dark spaces within him, and everything below, was quiet.

Getting up, Ian stretched there in the early light, his bones popping loudly then after sleeping on that rock-hard floor as he undressed himself at the top of the world before slipping into the t-shirt and shorts he kept in his bag. Sliding out his CD player one last time, Ian began doing the workout he hadn’t bothered doing the night before, although he figured climbing all those fucking stairs had probably made up for it.

Staying in shape was something he needed to do now for nothing more than survival; it was no longer about his looks – no longer about what men would think of him when he strolled into a club on a Friday night - it was about how fast he could run should he need to; how long he could go before losing steam; how much weight he could carry with him on longer trips into the city without needing a break every twenty minutes; and like the simple act of washing his hair, it was something that still felt normal, and just doing it gave him a small respite from everything else that… _wasn’t_.

By the time he was done he was sweating, and although it wasn’t something his body produced much of anymore, the endorphins that _did_ make their way through his brain from the exercise made him feel alive again, and he shrugged quickly back into his faded black jeans and old grey t-shirt with a new sense of purpose that rarely reared its beautiful head.

Racing down the stairs of Willis Tower – medic kits and a new gun with a scope in hand – Ian let a child-like smile pull up the corners of his lips; he was suddenly eager to be home, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up in his own bed this afternoon, and maybe have a fucking nap for once in his life.

After refastening the chains on those sturdy, beautiful doors, Ian flew down North Wabash Avenue and over the bridge to the station; he practically ran a military marathon down the Orange Line, the weight of his backpack tugging hard on his spine as the weight of the duffel pulled down at his shoulder. This time, he had strapped the M4 properly to his bag, and it stayed in place as Ian shifted the ladder back, making his way along the top of the L train before hopping down on the other side, and finally slowing to a snail’s pace as he neared South Side.

Glancing at his watch, Ian saw it was approaching noon, and he felt the sun above him beating hard onto his forehead. Ian was no longer sure what day it was exactly, but he knew from nothing more than mental calculation that it was definitely sometime in late May; he hadn’t known if a Leap Year had passed him by – it must have, considering it had been four years since all of _this_ began – but he didn’t think one extra day made much of a difference so early on in the end of the world.

Ian picked up his pace, taking the occasional swig of water from his nearly-empty bottle before finally reaching the weathered front porch of his house as the time hit just after twelve.

Ian sat down hard on the top step, looking out at the empty street before him as he let his heavy breathing slow, slow, until he could actually manage shrugging off his backpack and taking out the walkie talkie.

Ian flipped it on to channel one

“Hello?” he croaked, voice harsh from breathing so goddamn hard; but this time, those endorphins kept him slightly more hopeful than he had been the day before. “Hello, is there anybody listening?”

Silence; nothing but static.

Ian smiled to himself and actually laughed there in his little ghost town – a laugh that probably made him sound crazy but was born out of sarcastic amazement more than anything – amazement at the fact that he was still trying to do this shit after all this time.

It was fucking useless.

“My name is Ian Gallagher!” he yelled into the speaker then, and it wasn’t anger – he did it to make himself laugh. “Hellloooooooo!?”

Nothing.

Ian flipped it to channel two, then three, then four, so on, so forth.

Nothing.

Ian shifted, leaning back suddenly against the railing and pulling a knee up to his chest so he could rest his cheek on it; he was tired now, those endorphins and the adrenaline wearing steadily away while he sat, like his body knew that he was safe at home now, and it could allow sleep to wash over him like rain.

Absently, in an exhausted daze, Ian turned the knob to channel fifteen.

“Hello?” he whispered, and felt his arm start to go slack as his lids became so heavy he was sure they’d never open again. “This is Ian Gallagher. I’m a survivor living in Chicago.”

Suddenly, that loud hiss of static came through without warning – that same abrupt burst that had come through the previous couple days – and in his weary state, Ian only found it semi-curious when he realized that it only seemed to happen on channel fifteen.

“Hello?” Ian yawned then, his jaw popping in the white noise. “Is that just the universe fucking with me?” he asked, smiling shyly to himself as his lids sunk down, down…

_“Hello?”_ someone answered suddenly, and Ian’s eyes fluttered open just a little; he wasn’t altogether sure he had heard it, it was so quiet, and he felt his brows furrow as he wondered absently if he was just so fucking tired that he was starting to hear things now, or if he was just so fucking tired that he was saying words out loud without even knowing it.

Or maybe, he was hallucinating. Ian lifted his head at the unwanted thought, glancing around as if expecting to see someone there on the sidewalk, the exhaustion within him only ebbing away slightly as it gave way to a tiny hint of panic, and he half-expected to see Lip there, standing in the gate with a cigarette.

_“Hello?”_ the broken voice came again, just a tiny blip, distinct amongst the static; this time, though, Ian felt the small vibration in his hand at the sound – the small vibration that came along with the voice that whispered through the speaker, and Ian knew that _feeling_ wasn’t something that came with his hallucinations.

Ian nearly dropped the walkie talkie, the heart within his chest suddenly free falling into fucking oblivion as he realized that there was a voice coming through the radio, and it wasn’t his own; there was a voice echoing out around him that belonged to someone else, and Ian hadn’t known anything like it in almost two years.

Ian held the button down, squeezing so hard that his knuckles went white.

“Hello!?” he repeated, his voice trembling as he sat up at once, now completely wide awake, and blood rushed back into his ears as a numb feeling like shock jolted outwards into his extremities, making him cold in the mid-May, mid-day sun. “Is someone there!?”

More static hissed out around him, but nobody answered.

“Hello?” He said it again. “My name is Ian Gallagher, can you hear me?”

There was another sharp burst of static, and then…

_“Ian?”_

Ian’s mouth dropped open at the hearing of his name – at the hearing of those two tiny, insignificant syllables on the tongue of a stranger – and all the air within his lungs left him entirely, his breath hitching in his throat – tears burning behind his eyes – as he hugged that godforsaken walkie-talkie tight to his chest right there on the front porch, and began to fall apart completely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is:  
> Thank You For the Offer by Chip Taylor


	2. If You're Out There, Let Me know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe the world isn't as lonely as Ian thinks.  
> Maybe even after everything, he's allowed to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have added a *tentative* chapter total of twelve, but that is probably going to change at this point! Whether it will be more or less, I don't know!  
> As always, a forewarning for mental health struggles.  
> Don't forget to see the end notes for this chapter's theme song! I always suggest listening as soon as you're done reading, because it always hits harder!

DAY THREE

After that voice had come through the day before and someone – somewhere – had said his name, Ian’s heart hadn’t slowed a single beat.

After that voice had come through the day before and someone – somewhere – had said his name, Ian hadn’t slept; he hadn’t managed to do much of anything really, besides pace around the house – pace around the garden – changing out the batteries on the walkie-talkie every couple hours during the afternoon, during the night, now the morning, when the pair before eventually died.

He wouldn’t turn it off – he fucking refused.

After that voice had come through the day before and someone – somewhere – had said his name, no other sounds had hissed through that radio, and Ian was starting to think that he _had_ , in fact, imagined it – that his PTSD was devolving back into full-blown auditory hallucinations.

At least he wasn’t seeing things…

Walking back into the kitchen, Ian rubbed a hand over his face, the exhaustion from a whole night of sitting at the dining table and staring at the walkie in the darkness sinking so deep within him that he was no longer actually tired, but hyperactive – he was at the point of intense restlessness that he knew came just before the fall, when you could no longer keep your eyes open and your body finally decided just to close them for you.

“Fuck,” Ian sighed, sitting down into the same chair he had occupied all night long and putting his head into his hands, trying to keep them from punching something.

There was a feeling in his chest, and he wasn’t quite sure what that feeling was – it was familiar, yet indistinct; he likened it maybe to optimism – which is something he knew he’d felt before in his lifetime – but it had been so goddamn long that he no longer knew if that’s what it was or not.

Glancing at his watch, Ian saw it was just after 8am; he needed to sleep, and he needed to eat; he also needed to bathe, because he was seriously starting to reek; but he didn’t want to do any of those things – he didn’t want to do something that might distract him for the split second it took for that voice to come back through.

Ian grabbed the walkie-talkie once more from off the tabletop.

It hadn’t strayed from channel fifteen.

“Are you still there?” he asked again, and after the hundredth time, it wasn’t lost on him how defeated he sounded – how desperate. “Please. Talk to me.”

Nothing.

“Fuck it.” With a huff, Ian got up, taking the walkie with him as he grabbed one of the flashlights from off the washing machine before swinging open the door to the basement and flicking it on, making his way down the rickety steps to the far corner of the dank room that now felt more like a crypt.

Piled on the work benches along the wall, there had to be what Ian assumed was at least a thousand batteries; he had gotten in the habit of just taking them whenever he came across them – new packages from the stores, or old ones from someone’s remote – he didn’t really give a shit; he took them either way, because now, they were some of the only things that could really give him comfort, whether it be by powering his CD player, his flashlights, or his godforsaken walkie-talkies.

Grabbing a couple of the 9 volts, Ian padded back up the steps, his eyes squinting as they refocused on the daylight at the top, and he wanted suddenly to keep them squinted – to close them for good for a little while, and maybe sleep – so he continued right through the kitchen, around the corner, and took the back stairs two at a time until he was in his room.

Ian considered putting the barricade back up over his window for some darkness, but last minute, he decided against it, stripping down to his boxers and thinking absently in his mind that maybe the metal over the window would block any signals that tried to come through.

Laying the batteries out on the small table beside his bed, Ian laid down, pulling the small throw blanket up to his waist and tucking his hands between his head and the pillow as he stared at the walkie standing up beside them, a low hiss coming out steadily from the speaker as his eyes finally closed, closed, the tiny spark of hopefulness still burning just a little in his chest, until he was back in that dark place…

~

_“Here, Ian,” Lip said suddenly, causing Ian to jump a little in the abrupt, endless quiet; but a shaky, heavy breath born out of pure, utter relief escaped his mouth at the sweet sound, and he felt a heaviness float up from off his chest as he turned towards his brother._

_Ian grabbed his rifle up from off the floor, aiming it slightly up the steps so that he could see Lip sitting halfway up them in the beam of his flashlight, the glass of his own smashed where his rifle had clearly fallen into the metal railing._

_“You alright?” Ian asked at once, the heart in his chest slowing as he tried to breathe, his eyes gazing over his brother from head to toe._

_“I think…” Lip trailed off suddenly, sitting forward, reaching a hand out towards Ian’s upper arm. “Holy fuck Ian, did you get bit!?”_

_The panic in his brother’s voice made Ian glance down suddenly, made him detach the flashlight from off his rifle and point it down at his bicep._

_Ian had thought he’d been scratched by debris, or had just bumped into something – he had felt the sting as he’d been running, but he’d been too focused on Lip to pay any attention to himself._

_“Shit,” Ian hissed, eyeing the tear in his long-sleeved t-shirt, and for one of the only times in his life, Ian was thankful he had TypeB immunity – he could never become infected. “Here, hold this.” Ian handed Lip the flashlight, who took it, aiming it at Ian’s arm as Ian ripped the fabric with his other hand, and a massive bite mark came suddenly into view, teeth holes and blood mingling with yellowed saliva and dirt._

_“You need to get home, **now** ,” Lip declared, standing up suddenly with a rather forceful grunt. “Clean that shit out.”_

_Ian eyed the way his brother held the side of his ribs as he stood._

_“Are they broken?” Ian inquired, his stomach sinking as he took the flashlight back and reattached it to the muzzle, mentally calculating just how long they had to make it home before sunset._

_“Don’t think so, just bruised maybe…”_

_“Let’s go.”_

_Lip grabbed his gun, his teeth gnashing together as he winced in pain at the movement, and Ian knew they weren’t going to have enough time…_

A burst of static cut into Ian’s sleeping then, his eyes flying open so suddenly at the unexpected noise that his heart – already jack-hammering from his nightmare – nearly burst through his ribs; he clutched immediately at his chest, clawing for breath as the panic took over, his eyes scanning the room for a perceived threat that wasn’t actually there as his lungs tightened.

“You’re okay,” he panted, his voice so loud and strained as he gulped air that he didn’t even recognize it. “Count Ian,” he told himself, lips trembling so hard that his breath sounded just like the disjointed static that echoed out from the table beside him. “Fucking count!”

Pressing the hand on his chest harder into himself – nails digging at skin – Ian closed his eyes, just as another burst of static came loudly through the walkie, and he jumped at the sound, the fear only rising even though he knew that logically, _sound_ couldn’t hurt him.

“One, two, three,” he inhaled, his lids squeezing further shut, and he tried to focus on the sunlight that made the blackness behind them more like a soft, golden glow. “Four, five, six,” he exhaled, and the glow of that same sun ebbed into him a little more – beyond his eyes, through his nerves, out into his hands, his belly, his feet – casting out the darkness, bit by bit.

“One, two…”

_“..llo?”_ That same voice came suddenly, just the tail end of a greeting, and Ian’s eyes flew open again, the heart within him abruptly shifting its rhythm from terrified to exultation.

Ian threw the blanket back and swung his legs off the bed, planting his feet on the floor as he grabbed the radio up at once, glancing at the watch on his wrist out of nothing more than curiosity.

It was just after twelve noon.

Ian pressed the button down.

“I’m here,” he panted, and despite the tightness in his chest that was still lingering – despite the unwelcome memory – he smiled.

It was quiet for a minute, causing Ian to chew at the dirt under the nail of his thumb, and his leg to bounce in anticipation.

Then, another burst of static.

 _“Is..iss..an?”_ the voice stuttered between wavelengths, and Ian closed his eyes, leaning his head towards the speaker, straining to hear above the white noise.

“What?”

_“…ust…fuck!…”_

Ian felt his lips press together as a tight smile spread inexplicably across his face at that, the familiar sound of frustration – the unexpected, errant saying of a curse word by a stranger – making every hint of panic and anxiousness left within him disappear into thin air, like magic.

Or, Ian thought, like a miracle.

Inspiration clawed its way to Ian’s surface then as he went towards the window, standing in the brilliant sunlight as he thought that maybe the reception would improve somehow, despite only being three feet from where he had been.

“Is this better?”

_“…o…ust…ang on…”_

There was a sudden humming sound then – a metallic buzzing – and Ian turned abruptly on his heels, afraid he might lose the stranger altogether as he raced down the hallway in his boxers, flying down the back steps before swinging open the back door and marching straight down into his brother’s garden, his bare feet treading easily on soft grass.

“Can you hear me?” Ian asked, panting a little, and the sudden surge of endorphins caused him to forget the feelings of doubt and uncertainty that usually accompanied the asking of that question, because this time, somebody was actually answering.

Taking a couple steps further into the garden – as out into the open as he could get – Ian sat down abruptly on the ground at the end of Lip’s row of lettuce, cradling that radio between his hands in his lap – like it were a baby bird – as it buzzed once more, and all at once, Ian’s heart nearly stopped.

 _“Ian?”_ they said again, not a single hint of static, and Ian’s breath caught in his throat as relief crashed suddenly throughout him, as if a tidal wave of joy were tumbling down over the walls of his city of despair.

“Yes,” Ian sighed, laughing softly against the late-spring breeze as he brought that radio up to his lips with both hands. “Yes, my name is Ian.”

_“Can you hear me better?”_

Ian’s mouth dropped open at that – at that first, full sentence that came through clearer than freshly-polished crystal – and he felt the sting behind his eyes return as hope breathed life fully into his chest for the first time in years, those embers that had been dying and dormant suddenly sparking back into existence in an engulfing inferno, and it was like the sun itself had been plucked from the sky by that single voice, and placed into the space between his ribs.

“Yes,” Ian repeated, and didn’t care at all that he was crying, _or_ if the stranger could hear it. “Yes, I can hear you.”

There was a long pause, nothing more than the sound of birds chirping from a nearby oak, but Ian tried not to let it kill the star inside him.

_“I…”_ the stranger started, cutting off for just a second, and Ian wondered if maybe he – for he was positive now that it was a man – was just as speechless. _“I dunno, this is weird…”_

“Weird?” Ian questioned, shaking his head absently as he stared down at the walkie, as if this person couldn’t just hear him through it, but see him, too.

Ian wanted to tell him that no, it wasn’t weird, not to him – it was the furthest thing from it; he wanted to tell him that his voice might just be the greatest thing he had known in four years; but Ian refrained, not wanting to sound like the man he knew he was now, but maybe more like the man he had been before all of this began – confident, and unafraid. 

“ _I haven’t spoken to anyone in a long time, man,”_ the stranger added, as if an afterthought, but Ian thought he could hear a tinge of sadness in his tone.

Closing his eyes once more, Ian let that voice enter into him; the stranger sounded quiet, too – fragile, even – not just sad, like maybe he couldn’t quite believe that he wasn’t alone, either.

Even though Ian had no idea who this stranger was, he was already sure that somehow, this man was putting his broken pieces back together.

_“You there?”_

Ian smiled at the small vibration that tickled his palms.

_Yes,_ he wanted to say. _Yes of course I’m here._

“Me neither,” he admitted instead – hoping he’d know he was referring to his previous statement about not speaking to anyone in a long, long time – and Ian could hear that his own voice sounded just as fragile.

There was another break of quiet static then – that soft hiss echoing outwards on the mid-day sun – and Ian was a little surprised to find that it was an easy quiet – not one filled with awkwardness or wondering just what to say – at least on his part; it was a comfortable silence, and it felt to Ian like maybe they could sit there for hours with nothing more than the simple knowledge of each other – of another human being – and that alone would be enough to see them through ‘til sunrise.

 _“So where are you, man?”_ the stranger asked then, a newfound curiosity leaking happiness into his voice. _“I thought I heard you say Chicago but…”_

Ian glanced up towards the sky, like maybe his exact GPS coordinates were written in the clouds somewhere and he could tell them to the stranger; but of course, they weren’t

“Yea, Chicago,” he confirmed. “Where are you?” Ian held his breath as soon as that question left his lips, and his heart thumped just a little faster as he wondered how far apart they might be…

_“Minneapolis.”_

Minneapolis.

That same feeling Ian couldn’t quite place that morning filled his chest once more, but he knew now that he had been right in his suspicions – it was optimism, and Ian grasped onto it like a buoy in an endless sea as the air trembled between his lips.

Minneapolis was only a few days away, he knew it; maybe one day, they could m…

 _“But I’m from Chicago, too,”_ the man added suddenly, and Ian glanced abruptly down at the radio cradled in his hands, actually grinning like a fool at its smooth, black surface.

“Really?” His surprise was evident.

 _“Yea, man._ ”

Man. Ian liked that he kept saying that; it made him sound young somehow – young and nonchalant maybe, like he wasn’t weary or afraid of the distant stranger on the other end; maybe he wasn’t afraid of anything, and something about that made Ian feel happier – warmer – than he already was.

“Whereabouts are you from?” he ventured, hoping it wasn’t too personal of a question.

_“South Side.”_

The walkie slipped from Ian’s grasp – not far luckily – landing in his lap with a soft thud as his heart skipped a beat and his mouth went dry. Ian grabbed it up at once, trying to press the button to reply, but suddenly his palms were sweaty, and his thumb slipped a couple times before he finally got it.

“Did you say South Side?”

 _“Yea, man.”_ The stranger chuckled a little, just a soft puffing of air that came through in hushed little bursts, but to Ian, it sounded like music – it sounded like fucking _life_.

“I’m from South Side, too,” he admitted then, apparently not the least bit hesitant to tell this stranger absolutely everything. “I’m here now, actually.”

The radio went silent once more, and Ian had the errant thought that maybe the man would think he was lying, so he added:

“From South Wallace,” ensuring for nothing more than his own satisfaction that the stranger trusted him; for some reason, Ian wanted him to trust him.

A few more unbearable seconds passed, Ian’s heart beginning to pick up its pace at the never-ending quiet around him; maybe the stranger was thinking – maybe he was just as surprised at finding out they were both from the wrong side of the tracks.

What were the chances of that?

 _Surely near to impossible_ , Ian thought.

 _“Is there anyone…”_ the man started finally, but stopped, the hiss of static returning as Ian’s heart rate returned to normal, and without having to hear the rest of his question, Ian already knew the answer.

His head fell a little, one hand finally leaving the walkie so he could tug at a piece of grass beside his bare thigh.

“No,” he answered simply, sniffing loudly in the garden as the sun beat down on his naked shoulders from above. “No, I’m the only one left.”

Ian felt the warmth in his chest waver just a little, and absently, he hoped that that news didn’t make the stranger sad.

 _“Well fuck me, right,”_ his voice came back suddenly, another soft laugh escaping the radio that made a smile spread across Ian’s face – that made the hissing of that exact same swearword sound like the entirety of Shakespeare’s sonnets – and for the first time in as long as he could remember, Ian laughed, genuinely, the sound bubbling up from his chest like a long-lost friend, and with it came the tears that had never quite left.

“Yea,” he sighed, wiping one away as it trickled down his cheek. “Yea, fuck me is right.”

Ian was starting to welcome the silence that interrupted their short exchanges; closing his eyes once more, he lett the breeze tickle the hair at his chin as he leaned his head back, wondering absently if maybe he should say something else, just to keep him around for a little while longer…

_“Hey, you still there?”_

Ian glanced back down at the radio, thinking that maybe this man could read his mind, and that maybe his voice sounded a little worried.

“Yea, I’m still here.” Ian rubbed his thumb along the side of the walkie, as if it were now the single most important thing in his entire world, which honestly, Ian thought it probably was.

_“I have to go now, man,”_ the stranger sighed, and that hint of sadness returned to his voice at the same time it returned to Ian’s chest.

Letting his own smile fall away, Ian felt the loneliness creep back into the empty spaces inside of him against his will, and he bit his tongue to distract himself from the hurt of it.

“Okay.”

_“Do you have a watch?”_ the man asked, randomly. “ _Or a clock?”_

Ian glanced absently at the watch on his wrist.

“Yes, I have a watch.”

_“Good.”_

Ian could hear the smile in the stranger’s voice.

“Why?”

_“Turn the radio back on to this channel tonight at nine, just before sunset.”_

The loneliness receded a little.

“Alright.”

_“Oh, and Ian?”_

“Yea?”

_“My name’s Mickey, by the way. Mickey Milkovich.”_

A long, shaky breath of air escaped Ian’s lips at that, and he hugged the walkie tight against his chest with both hands as he stared down at the slatted speaker on its weathered front, imagining it was the face of a dark-haired stranger.

“Talk to you later, then, Mickey Milkovich,” Ian said, and couldn’t help the calm that spread throughout him at the saying of his name – at the saying of a name that was no longer unknown to him, but familiar.

_“Yea. Talk to you later, Ian Gallagher.”_

Ian felt the flutter of something in his chest, but this sensation, too, eluded him.

~

Ian had plucked a potato from the garden, chopping it up into tiny cubes and roasting them slowly in his pan before tossing in an egg, making the most basic, unexciting form of a breakfast/lunch hash that had probably ever been made, but he didn’t altogether care. The smile hadn’t left his lips since he’d finally – after twenty-four exhausting hours – turned off the walkie-talkie, placing it down on the ground beside his bare feet as he sat at the bottom of the back porch steps, watching the hens peck their way around the coop as he ate in a state of bliss.

_Mickey Milkovich._

The name wasn’t familiar to him, even though he had said he was from South Side; so, after he ate – after he had cleaned his plate and tossed a few errant potato crumbs in for the chickens – Ian strolled inside, making his way to the stacks of books he had piled in the space under the stairs in the living room and digging out whatever yearbooks of his or Lip’s he could find. Ian didn’t know how old Mickey was – he hadn’t thought to ask, really, it didn’t seem important – but something about him had seemed young enough; besides, Ian had time to kill, and what was the harm in checking?

Flipping through the few yearbooks he could find from their time at Lincoln Grove, Ian glanced at the names under the pictures one by one, trying not to look at the faces of people he would never see again as he flipped quickly to the _M_ sections of every grade, wondering absently if he would ever actually be lucky enough to just find him there, staring up from the paper as if he’d always just been waiting; but each time, he came up empty handed, and he only huffed a little bit in annoyance as he tossed the last book back into the dusty shadows under the stairs.

Ian stood and stretched his arms over his head, feeling his bones pop alongside the slight sting that came from the tiny hint of a sunburn that was beginning to form from sitting so long in the yard in nothing but his boxers. Rubbing a hand over his skin, Ian turned his head, glancing awkwardly down at his shoulders, and he smiled a little to himself at the freckles that were already starting to become more prominent.

Strolling his way up to the bathroom – deciding it was finally time to get clean – Ian paused in front of the mirror, thankful that there was only a slight hint of pink covering his torso – luckily, he wouldn’t be too burnt; but then, he caught sight of the bite mark on his right bicep, the sun’s presence making it redder than it usually was, and that thankfulness turned suddenly to hatred. It was so different now from the ugly wound it once had been two years ago, the skin that had been jagged and red now soft, numb scar tissue that sat raised on his skin; and even though time had passed, Ian knew that if anyone else were to ever see it, they’d know exactly what it was – the oval crescent and individual indentations not at all inconspicuous.

Ian raised his arm up to his face so he could get a better look at them, and even though he was shirtless, with no fabric clinging to him to hold onto his sweat, he could suddenly smell himself – his nose so close to his pit – and his face scrunched up into a look of disgust as he immediately lowered his arm, turning to grab a water jug from the corner and deciding to focus on more important things than the past.

With a small grin on his lips, Ian poured the water into the first basin, then the second, wondering absently if Mickey Milkovich smelt bad, too, or if he smelt good, like lavender soap.

Ian didn’t think there was anything more behind his random wonderings than genuine curiosity – what more was there to think about when you may have found the only other person on the face of the planet?

Something about the sudden appearance of Mickey made Ian more sure of himself than the last time he had tried this – this new feeling of not being alone in the world making the warmth he felt between his thighs as he grabbed hold of himself even more pronounced and exhilarating; it wasn’t the idea or the presence of another man – of Mickey – that was pushing him forward though, it was simply the happiness and the relief that was bursting inside his soul at the simple knowledge that out there, there was _someone._

Ian glanced down, watching the water droplets on his hands roll silently off his skin as he slid his fist forward, tightening it around his tip, making the electric current of arousal that laid dormant under his skin shiver suddenly to life, and Ian felt his hips push forward automatically into his grip, his mouth falling open the smallest bit as his breathing began to pick up.

There was something about watching himself now that turned him on more than it used to, probably because there was nothing else to watch; but after that first bloom of precum had formed in his slit – after he had dragged his hand through it and rubbed it down over his veins with a whimper – Ian closed his eyes, letting his head fall back as he once again imagined that it was the hand of a dark-haired stranger.

This time, it worked; those rough, unfamiliar fingers pulling Ian closer and closer to the edge of something he hadn’t stood on in far too long, and the warmth that echoed out from his pelvis, his thighs, his stomach, made him curl inwards on himself before long, his left hand reaching blindly out to hold tight to the edge of the tub as he bit into his bottom lip, and the sound of a moan that had been trapped at the bottom of his throat came bursting out at the same time his cum did, and the force of it was so strong that Ian had to grab harder to the porcelain to keep himself from falling to his knees, his shaking thighs nearly giving way entirely.

When he came back down, down to earth – reopening his eyes to the sunlight around him – Ian thought for the first time in a long time that tonight might just be a good night, and he wasn’t afraid of the smile that tugged on his lips.

~

The sun was beginning to slowly set in the west as Ian sat himself down in the back garden in the chair he had dragged down from the kitchen, scooting himself up against the rounded end of the massive metal tub that was half-filled with water and laundry detergent before grabbing the hamper of dirty clothes from beside him and upending it, the water splashing up around him as his garments fell into the middle with an unenthusiastic _plop_ , making Ian smile.

He couldn’t remember ever smiling as much as he had this day, and he wondered absently if he ever even used to smile _before_ the end of the world; he must have, he was sure of it, it was just hard these days to remember, mostly because memories were things he tried to avoid.

Reaching down into the water, Ian grabbed the first piece of clothing he came in contact with and sloshed it around, sudding it up before dragging it harshly along the old plastic washboard that had been in their basement since the dawn of time.

Ian fucking hated doing his laundry – something about the monotony made his mind wander, and he didn’t like that – so sometimes, he entertained the idea of simply throwing it all away after wearing it and just going to the stores to get brand new clothes like some rich bitch; but his family had never been one for waste – passing along hand-me-downs like they were candy – and Ian had decided long ago that even in this afterlife, he wasn’t going to taint that tradition.

Memories he avoided, but traditions – traditions he could cling to.

When he was done, he strung them all up one by one on the line that extended from the top of the porch to the top of the smoking shed, making sure they were evenly spread out and unwrinkled before leaving them to dry in the warm, evening air.

Glancing up out of instinct, Ian placed his hand over his eyes to block them from the sun as he gazed up at the skies; there was a cloud front moving in from the east, making its way over Lake Michigan; Ian could see it darkening the horizon over the houses in the distance, threatening rain and maybe even a storm.

Ian looked back at his laundry briefly before eyeing the still-blue patch of sky above him, and figured he had at least an hour before he had to bring it all inside.

Absently, he wondered if storms would hinder the effectiveness of his radios...

~

It was just past 8pm when the first crack of thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance; Ian sat in the chair at the front window, sipping absently at a half-ass cup of coffee as he reread _Hell House_ for the umpteenth time, the story of people’s weaknesses being the reason for their demise always making him feel a little more sane than he did most days.

Leaning back in his chair, Ian tilted his head awkwardly to glance up at the sky through the window behind him; it was still bright enough out that he didn’t _have_ to board up the windows just yet, but the diverging clouds were ensuring that darkness was falling quicker than normal, and as always, Ian would rather be safe than sorry.

Getting up, he refastened the steel barricades over the windows one by one, touching absently at the clothes he had brought inside to dry as he passed, checking their progress before sliding the three wooden four-by-fours into their welded brackets behind the back door – three massive pieces of wood that would at least ensure that if They ever did try to come for him, They would have a Hell of a hard time getting in.

Ian locked the bolts for good measure, grabbing the handle and yanking on the door just to make sure that it wasn’t going anywhere.

Striding to the front of the house, Ian repeated the same procedure, sliding three identical wooden beams into place behind the main entrance and bolting it.

The second, inner door – filled with delicate glass panels – was now wrapped completely in mesh wiring; Ian reached out like he did every night, grabbing a hold of it and pulling to ensure that Debbie’s welds were still holding strong.

Only when he was satisfied did Ian step back in the sudden pitch black, a flash of lightning seeping in through the edges of the barricades as he reached out and slid the final metal bolts at the top and bottom of the second door into place.

“Just one more night,” he whispered, placing his palm against it, and he didn’t know when that had become a habit.

Turning, Ian grabbed his tiny camper’s lantern and clicked it on, shuffling back to his book in the corner to wait out the storm.

~

Up in his bedroom, Ian unhooked the barricade over his window, setting it down in the corner and sliding open the glass the smallest bit, letting the cooler air and the sound of rain drift its way in as the sky continued to darken.

Glancing at his watch, Ian saw it was two minutes to nine, and as he flicked the walkie-talkie on, he couldn’t quite help the feeling of anticipation that tugged at his nerves, making him almost giddy there in the warm glow of his lantern – which he set on the table beside him, where his extra batteries for the radio were still waiting neatly, just in case.

With the anticipation though, came an abrupt wave of fear – a subtle fear at the very real possibility that he may never actually hear Mickey Milkovich again…

Nothing was certain in this newfound life, and if Ian knew anything, it was that the next day – the next hour, the next minute – was never promised.

Choking down the thought, Ian sat down in the centre of his bed, bringing his knees up to his chest so he could rest his cheek against them as he eyed the soft light beside him – staring directly into the centre of the bulb as if all the answers to everything were written in there somewhere; but all at once – at this tiny action of simply _looking_ – the hint of a memory appeared suddenly on the outer edges of his mind, trying to claw its way in and make itself known. Ian could see Lip’s eyes, clear as day; they were younger than they had been – a lot younger – and he could see Carl, too, sitting across from him, their faces all lit up by the glow of a lantern as they camped out under a fort made of blankets in their shared bedroom down the hall, the smell of popcorn suddenly so real it were as if Ian had a bowl right there in front of him…

“Go away,” he whispered, pressing his thumb and forefinger over his eyes to keep the image from fighting its way fully into his brain – keeping it from turning into not just a flashback, but full-on panic. “Not now, please not now…”

_“Gallagher?”_ Mickey said suddenly, breaking through the quiet in a quipped burst of static, and just like that, the memory disappeared.

Ian’s heart fluttered in his chest at the sound of his voice – the way there was an edge of worry to it, as if Mickey was just as afraid as Ian had been that his newfound voice in the silence would no longer be there.

Ian grabbed the walkie at once and pressed the button.

“Mickey,” he sighed, quietly, letting a small smile pull up his lips, and he knew he sounded relieved, and also maybe just a little overly fond.

_“Were you expecting someone else?”_

Ian’s face nearly split in half. That was facetiousness, he knew it was – it was a hint of humour; but more than that, Ian thought maybe it was a breadcrumb – the offering up of a small glimpse into the person Mickey actually was, and Ian was going to take it and fucking run.

“Yea, actually,” he teased, laughing breathily as he pushed himself back, leaning up against the wall while the rain outside continued to pour. “Have some friends coming over…”

There was silence from the other end for a moment, and Ian wondered if Mickey was smiling, too.

Is this what kidding around and making jokes had felt like? Making… _friends_?

Ian couldn’t remember.

_“Oh yea?”_

Mickey was definitely smiling, Ian could hear it; there were soft puffs of laughter accompanying his words.

“Yea, got dinner plans.”

_“Whatcha havin’?”_ Mickey asked, his responses coming quicker than they usually did, which made that loneliness inside of Ian recede just the smallest bit more, as if every word that came back through was a pinprick of light.

Pausing for a moment, Ian thought suddenly about food – all kinds of food – fucking _mountains_ of food: burgers, French fries, pizza, pasta, steaks, bacon, fresh bread, ice-cream, cake, tacos, popcorn…

…he stopped suddenly, squeezing his eyes again to keep that memory at bay, and that’s when he realized that his mouth was hanging open – nearly to the point of drooling – and that he had probably been quieter for longer than he had mean to be.

“Umm, pizza,” he settled on, closing his eyes to try to remember what cooked dough and tomato sauce and melted cheese tasted like when they were all jammed together...

_“Fuck I would kill for a pizza.”_

There it was again – _fuck_. Ian wondered absently if Mickey had always been so informal with strangers, even before the world ended; either way, he didn’t think he cared much; Mickey just sounded South Side, which made Ian’s head swim in a way he no longer thought was possible.

“And a beer,” Ian added, scratching absently at his beard, thinking maybe he should trim it soon.

_“Man, fuck you,”_ Mickey chuckled. _“Do NOT even bring up beer.”_

Ian pulled the walkie up closer to his chest, smiling down at it again like it was precious as another crack of thunder echoed overhead, his room bursting white as a bolt of lightning hit somewhere in the distance.

“No beer talk, got it.” Ian glanced out the window at the sky that was almost black now, that instinctual hint of wariness and dread that came with the fading of the sun making itself known. “Is it storming there?” he asked absently, trying to refocus his worry as he picked an errant fuzz off the blanket beneath him – trying to believe that nothing else besides what was happening inside his room actually mattered.

_“It was,”_ Mickey replied. _“But I think it was moving towards you…”_

“Yea, it’s fuckin’ pouring.” Ian risked the swearword, and if he did it, it was for nothing more than his own comfort – because Ian was just as South Side as Mickey was, and if Mickey could be himself to a complete stranger, so could Ian.

He could be the person he once had been.

The room fell into hushed static again – that comforting silence that wasn’t the least bit worrisome – and Ian closed his eyes to it once more, letting his head fall back against the wall, and in his mind it was almost like Mickey was there with him, just a body that he couldn’t quite see hovering somewhere in his peripherals – just a presence that he knew was there, and that was enough to warm him.

_“Your friends there yet?”_ Mickey asked then, cutting into his world again, and Ian smiled, not even bothering to open his eyes or lift his head.

He brought the walkie up to his mouth.

“Nah, they cancelled.”

_“Assholes.”_

“Tell me about it. Didn’t even call.”

_“They text at least?”_

Ian wondered if smiling this much after so long was bad for his face somehow.

“Went over their data limit.”

Mickey actually laughed then – this deep hum of a laugh that Ian could feel in his bones – and the way it was so carefree – more than just gentle huffs of air amongst the quiet like Ian was used to hearing from him – made Ian wonder if Mickey knew he was holding the _talk_ button or not…

Suddenly the sound cut out and it was back to static, and Ian chuckled quietly to himself, supposing that as enough of an answer.

_“So what did uhh,”_ Mickey started then, his voice reserved now, shy – like maybe he was embarrassed at accidentally allowing another to hear him let go like that. _“What did you do… today?”_

Ian wanted suddenly to be able to look at him – to look Mickey in the eye – simply so he could smile at him and let him know that he didn’t have to be embarrassed – that even though Ian had no fucking clue who he was, that laugh still did more for him in a single second than a year’s worth of counting breaths.

“Oh I had an exciting day,” Ian huffed, laying the sarcasm on thick as he slid down the wall so that he was laying back against his pillows; he wanted to be playful again, if only to bring back that easiness that had just disappeared in a cloud of smoke. “I uhh, made breakfast, looked at the sky, found some batteries, did some laundry, looked at yearbooks, glanced at the sky again, read a little bit…”

Out of the whopping two people that Ian knew for sure remained on the face of the planet, he suddenly assumed from nothing more than that fucking list that he was most definitely the boring one.

_“Reminiscing eh?”_ Mickey asked then, and Ian’s brows furrowed.

“Huh?”

_“Going through yearbooks, man. Were you reminiscing?”_

Ian felt his eyes widen a bit; had he said that part out loud? Shit.

“Uhh, yea, I guess.”

Fuck fuck fuck.

_“Is it sad that my day was probably even more fuckin’ boring than yours?_ ”

“I doubt that.”

_“Nah man, I swear.”_

“So what did you do?”

There was another long moment of silence, and Ian turned his head in time to see another streak of lightning light the sky, followed by another crack of thunder.

_“Nothing.”_

Ian glanced back at the walkie, standing it up on his belly and balancing it there as he smiled at it, watching it rise and fall as he breathed.

“You did not just do nothing…”

_“Not a fuckin’ thing.”_

Okay, maybe Ian was the interesting one after all; Ian’s ears perked up a bit at that though, as he thought back to their conversation that morning, remembering the way in which Mickey abruptly had to go.

“So why did you have to leave?” he asked, and even though he knew it was none of his business, he couldn’t quite help it – just like he couldn’t quite help the way his voice got softer when he asked it.

_“Whatta you mean?”_

“This morning, you said you had to go; I figured you had stuff to do.”

Another pause of static.

_“Nah man I just…”_

Another.

“What?”

_“Nothin, I guess…”_

More static.

“Okay then…” Ian laughed a little, maybe sounding a bit more annoyed than he meant to, because it was like trying to pull teeth.

_“Listen I don’t gotta fuckin’ tell you everything,”_ Mickey hissed suddenly, the anger and irritation in his voice making Ian’s chest squeeze, and for the first time since Mickey had radioed in, the smile fell away from Ian’s lips.

Sitting up in the warm glow of the lantern, Ian crossed his legs beneath him, trying not to look at the walkie – as if it were Mickey himself – as he felt that cold sting of loneliness return suddenly with a vengeance, the abrupt harshness of Mickey’s voice biting its way through his chest – gnawing at his bones – and that fucking memory of him and his brothers camping out for the night in a blanket fort for his seventh birthday was suddenly there again.

Dropping the radio down between his legs, Ian bent his head forward and placed it in his hands, rocking back and forth as the sound of Lip’s voice echoed in his ears – so much higher and more vulnerable than the last time he had heard it – causing his heart to thud in a way that made Ian sure it was going to fucking burst.

“It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay,” he mumbled, another crack of thunder only making his panic jump to a higher level, and he pursed his lips, letting the panting breaths escape loudly so he could count them. “One, two, three…”

Absently, Ian wished Mickey would laugh again as a flash of lightning cast out some of the dark shadows that hid behind his closed eyes.

_“Hey man, look, I…”_ Mickey came through then but trailed off, his voice much quieter – almost a whisper.

Ian could just barely hear him over the rushing in his ears, and he stopped counting then, focusing on the sound of Mickey’s voice as his hands slipped from his face and went to his chest, squeezing the fabric into bunches as he pulled at it.

_“Are you still there?”_

 _Yes,_ he wanted to say again. _Yes of course I’m here._

But he couldn’t; not yet.

Ian felt the burn as his eyelids mashed harder together, Lip’s voice getting quieter and quieter inside his mind as he read to Ian and Carl from the worn pages of _Hell House_ , and Ian could feel the fear in his chest, but he didn’t know if that was real or just part of the memory.

“Your name is Ian Gallagher,” Ian whimpered then, watching Carl’s round face fade, fade, fade into near nothingness. “You live at 2119 South Wallace in Chicago, and you’re alive.”

Breathing was slowly becoming easier as the tightness in his chest eased back just a little, allowing fuller, deeper breaths to fill his lungs.

 _“…well I’m sorry and shit so…bye, I guess,”_ Mickey was saying, and Ian’s hand shot out at once, grabbing the walkie from off the bed.

“No!” he yelled, much louder than he meant to. “No. Just…give me a second. Please.” Ian flopped back against his pillows, draping his arm over his eyes so he was in total darkness as he waited for his heart to slow.

_“Are you okay?”_

_No_ , he wanted to confess. _No Mickey, I’m fucked._

Instead, Ian breathed for another minute, hoping that Mickey would just understand without needing words and would give him the time he needed to regain his senses and come back down to earth – hoping that Mickey would just…wait.

Finally, Ian lifted his arm, pressing the button on the radio as he held it up in front of his face, over his mouth.

“I’m here,” he panted. “I’m here just…”

_“Just what?”_

Ian didn’t care how he sounded.

“Just don’t go.”

Another burst of thunder rolled overhead, but Ian felt the corner of his mouth pull up just a little as he realized it was moving further away from him, taking with it a distant memory he no longer wanted.

 _“I’m not going anywhere,”_ Mickey answered then, and his voice was suddenly so unbelievably sincere – lacking even the tiniest hint of bullshit – that it made something akin to peace settle into Ian’s soul there in the encroaching night, and in that moment, Ian Gallagher thought he knew exactly the type of person Mickey Milkovich was.

An honest one; if maybe a little rough around the edges.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Ian admitted then, staring up at his ceiling, eyeing the big, round shadow of the top of his lantern.

 _“Yea well,”_ Mickey sniffed, and Ian liked the sound of it. _“I’d say I didn’t mean to be an asshole but that would be lying, so…”_

Ian grinned at nothing more than his thoughts about Mickey being proven right.

“I get the feeling you’re not big into lying.”

_“Well what would be the point in that?”_

“In what? Lying?”

_“Yea man, the only reason I ever lied was to steal shit and now, well…”_

Ian laughed to himself because, well…

“What kinda shit did you steal?”

_“I thought you said you were South Side…”_

“Touché.”

It would have been easier to ask what he _didn’t_ steal.

Swinging his legs off the bed, Ian stood up, an overwhelming need to piss suddenly taking up all of his attention; he glanced at the walkie, considering telling Mickey to just hang on a second, but he didn’t want to be back in the comfortable silence, not just yet.

So, grabbing his little plastic lantern from off the table, Ian strolled into the bathroom, setting it on the back of the toilet as he pulled what he referred to as his _piss bucket_ up from off the floor and set it on the lid.

Usually he’d just go outside in such a situation as this but, not once the sun set.

_“So like, did you…”_ Mickey trailed off again.

Ian glanced at the walkie in his left hand, grinning a little as he shook himself dry before tucking it away for the night. It was somewhat endearing, Ian thought absently as he strolled back towards his room, the way Mickey could seemingly be so straightforward and abrasive at times, but then shy or maybe even nervous at others.

“Did I what?” Ian flopped back down onto his blankets with a grunt, shoving his pillow under his head as he set the walkie back on his bedside table and opened the drawer before pulling out a chocolate bar; sure, they were a little stale these days and tasted…off, but it was the closest thing Ian had to comfort food, and besides talking to Mickey, that’s really all he wanted right now.

Comfort.

_“Did you like, have a wife and stuff?”_ Mickey inquired then, the words coming out fast, causing Ian to glance at the walkie and his hands to still, leaving the chocolate bar half-opened on his stomach as his mouth fell open a bit.

It wasn’t an odd question in the slightest, in fact, Ian thought it was the most logical thing for them to talk about – what they had had, what they had lost; but there was something in the way Mickey had asked it that caught Ian off guard, because he had asked it with the same lilted hesitation he had heard come out of his own mouth a hundred times as a teen, when he’d sneak into bars in Boy’s Town with a fake ID for nothing more than his own amusement and ask the men who eyed him if they had a girlfriend – a wife – just to see if they swung the same way he did.

Was that what Mickey was doing?

No, there was no way.

Ian’s heart had nearly stopped the moment he had heard that Mickey Milkovich was from South Side, the chances of that already being a hairsbreadth away from impossible; but to be gay, too?

No. There was no fucking way.

And yet…

“Nah, I’m gay,” Ian admitted bluntly, the words leaving his mouth before he even realized what he was doing, and he would have cringed at his over-eagerness if it wasn’t for the fact that now, he was curious.

That comfortable silence came back then tenfold; five seconds passed him by, then twenty, thirty, and Ian was starting to get nervous that he had encountered the only homophobe left alive when suddenly…

_“Me, too.”_

“Holy shit.” Ian didn’t say this over the walkie, he said this to himself, feeling the heart within his chest hammer against his hardened ribcage as his mouth went dry, and _holy shit_ , he needed a drink.

Standing, Ian strolled across the hall, into the bathroom, and lifted one of his blue water jugs off the floor, tilting it up directly and pouring it straight into his mouth, droplets running down the sides of his face from his speed, because there was no way he could leave Mickey waiting, not after that.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Ian leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, walkie in his hand; he rubbed the black antenna over his lips, feeling the soft plastic against his skin, and just what the fuck was he supposed to say?

_It doesn’t change anything_ , Ian thought then, falling back once more against his mattress; Mickey was still a complete stranger in Minneapolis, who may just have been the worst person in the world when there were still people around to compare him to; but what Ian was struggling with now was whether he even fucking cared. Mickey was a person – to Ian, that was all that mattered; Mickey was _somebody_ – somebody who could just be there, and no matter what form that took, Ian was sure he would still hold onto it with all that he was.

There was a part of him now though – the part of him that had enjoyed hearing Mickey laugh and took ridiculous pleasure in his errant swearing – that wondered if maybe it would be weird to have a crush at the end of the world.

“So did you have a husband, then?” Ian asked finally, genuinely curious, and he tried not to focus on the part of him that hoped that there hadn’t been.

_“Nah, too young for that shit.”_

Ian sat up again, and his muscles were starting to get annoyed with his fidgeting.

“Same.”

_“Christ you’re not like some kid are you?”_ Mickey spat then, and Ian’s face nearly split in half for the second time that day. It didn’t sound like Mickey was asking because he was maybe curious about Ian, too – curious about the other man on the end of the line and worrying whether or not he was way too young; no, it sounded to Ian like he was asking because he fucking hated kids.

Ian snorted.

“Fuck no, I’m twenty-four. I think…”

Another brief pause.

Ian flopped back down onto the sheets.

_“You **think**?”_

“ Well, as far as I know it’s late May, which means my birthday was sometime in the past two weeks…”

_“No shit?”_

“No shit.”

_“Well happy maybe belated birthday.”_

“Thanks.” Ian looked up at the ceiling, rubbing his hand along his stomach, scratching absently at his skin under the hem of his shirt as he wondered if maybe the universe was giving him a gift.

Better late than never.

“And?” Ian inquired then, biting the corner of his lip to keep from smiling.

_“And fuckin’ what?”_

“How old are _you_?” This fluttering was becoming a bit ridiculous.

_“Oh, I’m gunna be twenty-six in August.”_

Ian’s fingers squeezed around the radio in his hand as his lip went farther into his mouth, chewing it to keep himself from turning his face into the pillow and grinning against it like a little girl.

_“Hey by the way, have you ever heard another transmission out of…”_

The harsh, clanging sound of metal outside caught Ian’s attention suddenly, and he shoved the speaker of the walkie into the bedsheets, muffling Mickey’s question as he glanced towards the window, reaching out instinctively with his other hand and flipping off the lantern so that he was suddenly plunged into darkness.

Ian got up, leaving the radio on the bed as he tiptoed towards the open window, rain coming down now in soft taps against the roof; he stayed hidden in the shadows of the room as he leaned his head forward, eyes peering down to the side of the house, but the overhead cloud was blocking the moon, and he could barely see a thing.

_“Hey, you there?”_ Mickey said, and it was too fucking loud.

Ian lunged towards the bed, picking the radio up at once and pressing the button.

“Shhh,” he hissed into it, his heart rate beginning to climb once more, and he wondered absently if one day, it was just going to give out entirely. “I think they’re here, Mickey,” Ian whispered, and his voice trembled on his lip, all the happiness within him disappearing in a single step as he made his way back down from cloud nine.

_“Who?Your friends?”_ Mickey tried to joke, obviously not picking up on Ian’s seriousness, so Ian shoved the radio into his chest, trying to block the sound from carrying as he listened.

There was a loud bang against the front door then – Ian could tell because of the way the house shook, and the bile in his stomach burned its way up his throat.

“No,” Ian answered, finally, his fingers going numb. “ _Them_.”

Completely unsure why he wasn’t already on his feet and moving, Ian stared at the window, and he thought maybe he was waiting for Mickey, who – apparently – understood this time.

_“Run, Ian.”_

That was all it took.

Ian was up at once, flipping off the radio before closing his window, refastening the barricade as quietly as he could before running blindly down the back stairs, the rattling of the front door only getting louder as he went; he fumbled through the kitchen, tripping over a dining chair he had forgotten he had moved to set his drying clothes on as he reached for his new semi-automatic on the table.

The sound of his clumsiness reverberated throughout the house, and it may as well have been a fucking atom bomb, because the sounds of Them came at once from somewhere beyond the walls, and every hair on Ian’s body stood up at once.

“Fuck, fuck,” he hissed, grabbing his flashlight and tucking it under his arm as he ran back up the stairs in the darkness, immediately heading into the bathroom and closing the door behind him; his bedroom didn’t have a door – just a sliding partition – so Ian had ensured long ago that the secondary locks were put in the bathroom, just in case.

Ian pulled the four-by-four beams from under the tub, latching them down into their metal brackets on either side of the door before he stepped back, his breath coming ragged and deep, his gun shaking in his hand.

When his ass hit the wall, Ian stopped, slinking down onto the cold floor as he set his flashlight on the tiles in front of him, and placed the walkie between his thighs for safe keeping.

“They can’t get in,” Ian told himself, but honestly, he didn’t know if it were true; he couldn’t remember the last time more than one or two of Them had wandered South Side at night, and by the sounds of it, there had to be at least five; five fucking bodies tearing at his door because he had been careless – leaving his light on and his window open while he spoke to a stranger – and those odds didn’t make Ian feel safe.

For only a moment, Ian considered climbing out the bathroom window, out onto the small ledge he had built there and hoisting himself up onto the roof, making his way to the front and just picking them off for target practice; but he didn’t have his silencer, and the sound – he was sure – would only draw more of them in.

_Why are they even here_? he wondered absently – trying to focus on _something_ beyond imminent danger or fucking death. _They never come this far south.._.

Rubbing his hands up and down along the lengths of his thighs to calm himself, Ian thought then that maybe it had been the storm – the sound of the thunder, the earlier-than-normal darkness sending Them into a fucking frenzy, and his stupidity had pulled them right in.

“Fucking stupid, Ian, fuck!”

All at once he wanted to turn the radio back on – wanted to hear Mickey say something that would make him smile – but he couldn’t.

There had been enough carelessness for one day.

Instead, Ian picked up the walkie and held it tight in his hands, trying to focus on the fact that Mickey – that _someone_ – was just the click of a button away, just to keep him from fucking screaming.

DAY FOUR

At a little after 2am They broke through the front door, the sound of screeching metal entering into Ian’s ears like a bullet as the brackets that held the wooden beams gave way, bending under too much pressure and snapping off with a final clanking sound as Debbie’s handy work hit the floor, and the entire house shook under him as the door smashed back against the wall.

Bile had risen so far up his throat by then that Ian turned suddenly, grabbing his piss bucket and puking into it as quietly as he could manage, the burn in his chest only causing the tightness to increase as he waited.

When the sounds of Them grew abruptly louder as They converged in the front entrance, Ian stood up, palms soaked with so much sweat that he had to rub them over his jeans again before he could grab his gun, steady his hands the best he could, and aim it at the door, wondering all the while why the fuck he had stood in this exact same spot that morning and thought that tonight was going to be a good night just because he had jacked himself off.

If they made it through the second door, Ian was going out the window, and he would wait in the pouring rain ‘til sunrise, hypo-fucking-thermia be damned.

One by one, Ian listened as the glass panels broke, every high-pitched, shattering crack like a knife twisting inside him; the glass could break – he didn’t give a shit about the glass; it was the mesh wire wrapped around the door that worried him now, because that’s all there was between them – between _Them_ , and all that Ian was – just a massive grid of welded wiring no thicker than a quarter.

~

It held. Somehow, it held, and Ian was still standing in the exact same spot a couple hours later when the first rays of sunrise burst suddenly through the space around the steel barricade beside him, and all at once, They were gone, nothing but silence filling his ears as Ian turned suddenly then with nothing more than the exhale of a shaky breath, too fucking exhausted to even contemplate the energy it was going to take to lift those three wooden beams from their holding place.

Climbing into the tub, Ian laid down and turned his back to the door – turned his back to _Them_ – and brought the walkie-talkie up to his face, hugging it tight against his skin as he turned it back on, and promptly fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is:  
> Hello My Old Heart by The Oh Hellos
> 
> (Also, I realize that with the timeline, Debbie technically wouldn't have become a welder before the world ended, but her storyline is obviously essential to this story so, I made that a part of her backstory.")


	3. Losing My Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's not sure if every dark cloud actually has a silver lining, but maybe one day soon, he'll know for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a forewarning for mental health struggles and slight violence.  
> Don't forget to check the end notes for this chapter's song, and give it a listen to feel a little closer to my Ian!  
> Please feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich for excerpts, updates, and art!  
> Thank you all for being here xx

DAY FOUR

_“Ian?”_ someone said, voice anxious, and Ian didn’t think it was for the first time; the word had been drifting into his dreams for a while now, slowly bringing him back to life as his eyes peeled open to the shadows that were illuminated slightly by the bright light that still poured in through the space around the barricade above the tub.

Ian rolled over with a grunt of effort – his body stiff and sore from sleeping in a goddamn porcelain coffin – and patted his hand absently along the length of his body, blindly feeling for the walkie-talkie that must have drifted somewhere else as he’d slept.

_“Ian!?”_ Mickey sounded frantic, causing Ian to sit up at the sound as he finally found the radio down by his socked feet. _“If you’re dead man I swear to fuck…”_

Despite everything, Ian smiled at that threat; and maybe it was a shitty thing to do, but he waited a moment before answering, simply listening to Mickey on the other end and letting the worry in his voice make him feel a little bit more whole, like just knowing that there was once again somebody out there that maybe cared whether Ian lived or died would give him the energy he needed to actually get the fuck up and start this day on a happier note than all the others that had come before it.

_“Ian!? Man, I’m not asking again…”_

Those exact same words would be coming out of Ian’s mouth if the roles were reversed, he was certain; if Mickey had up and disappeared on _him_ in the middle of the night, Ian wouldn’t be reacting any differently, because just the thought of losing the only other person in the world so soon after finding them made Ian feel sick again – the idea of once more being alone making his heart stutter – and he squeezed that idea down before he could think any more about it.

“I’m here, Mickey,” he sighed, voice raspy from thirst and the after-effect of puking, and glanced at the watch on his wrist; it was just after twelve noon.

Silence echoed out around him for longer than normal, allowing Ian time to close his eyes and lean back against the wall of the tub, only feeling a little guilty for making Mickey wait as he pulled his knees up to his chest and mentally prepared himself for whatever carnage awaited him downstairs.

_“Jesus Christ, Ian,”_ Mickey came back then, the worry in his voice completely replaced by relief. _“Are you okay?”_

Ian glanced at the walkie – only somewhat surprised by the genuine concern in Mickey’s voice – and felt that long-absent warmth spread throughout his chest as a small, tired smile tugged at his lips.

“Yea, just…had a long night.”

_“How many?”_

Standing up then, Ian stepped out of the tub and over his gun so he could pull the barricade down from off the window, letting the brilliant light of a mid-day sun pour in through the glass before he opened it and leaned his head out so he could breathe, breathe; he didn’t need to ask to know what Mickey meant,

“Dunno, about five of Them, I think.”

_“In South Side?”_

The astonishment in Mickey’s voice wasn’t surprising; if he was stuck in a city as well, it wasn’t hard to imagine that he, too, was probably holed up in the suburbs somewhere, as far away from the endless dark places in the city’s centre as he could get.

“Yea, I think maybe the storm fucked them up or something.” Ian pulled himself back inside and set the walkie on the sink for a second so he could stroll over to the door and remove the three wooden beams one by one before grabbing it up again. “Maybe the sound of the thunder…”

_“They never leave downtown here,”_ Mickey confessed then, and Ian nodded absently, as if Mickey could actually see him.

Scooping his flashlight and gun up from up the floor, Ian opened the door; for a second he was confused as to why it looked so different out in the hallway – why it was so much brighter than it was supposed to be – until he remembered that They had taken down the front door, which meant daylight was now flooding in through the broken panes of glass below.

“Yea, same here,” he answered. “They hardly ever venture outside the city centre.” Ian went forward, grabbing a pair of old shoes he kept on the top landing for emergencies, sliding them on, and taking the steps two at a time before reaching the living room, the sound of broken glass crunching hard under his feet.

_“So you have to kill any or...?”_ Mickey asked, voice hesitant, and the question hit Ian harder than it probably should have.

The flash memory of his last day with Lip played suddenly in his mind – clawing at the edges of his being – and Ian tried to swallow it down, down, not wanting the fear and the anxiety to grip him – not right now.

“Haven’t uhh…” Ian trailed off, closing his eyes as he leaned forward so he could rest his head between his knees and try to force the memory away. “Haven’t killed one in a while...”

_Two years…_

There was another long hiss of static, and Ian focused on it, counting the seconds it took for Mickey’s voice to travel back to him instead of his own breaths, and he wondered absently what Mickey was doing right now, where Mickey _was_ right now, what his face looked like…

_“Really?”_ Mickey snorted as a quiet, breathy laugh escaped his lips, and that was all it took for Ian’s eyes to reopen – for the fear that tried to grip him to slink back to where it belonged. _“I kill those fuckers all the time…”_

Something about that ridiculously proud statement made Ian grin against his thighs, where his face was still tucked away as his heart slowed; maybe it was just the untainted abrasiveness of Mickey Milkovich, or maybe it was just the way that they were so open with each other despite having done nothing more than whisper tiny nothings through a radio; either way, Ian was beginning to feel actual fucking joy whenever Mickey opened his mouth, and the fact that he seemingly just picked Them off for fun was entertaining to Ian, somehow not a turn-off in the least; but Ian knew it was because They were nothing more than _things_ to him now – They had been nothing more than _things_ for a long, long time. Gone were the days of Ian wondering if there was anything redeemable left within Them – if there was any hint of humanity that maybe made them worth saving; but they couldn’t be saved, and that was nothing more than fact.

“Just for sport?” Ian queried then, straightening himself up as his heartbeat returned to normal before finally unbolting the inside door and swinging it open.

Eyeing the way the mesh wire was bent and completely misshapen from bodies pressing so hard against it, yet was still somehow intact, made Ian remember absently how he had pressed his palm against it every single night before bed and asked it to hold – just one more time – and he wondered absently if maybe the door had been listening.

Silently, Ian eyed the ceiling above his head and sent up a prayer of thanks to his youngest sister, and honestly wondered if – maybe sometimes – they were all watching out for him.

_“Nah sometimes I…”_ Mickey trailed off, so Ian stepped over the wooden beams on the floor and out onto the front porch, sitting down on the top step and gazing up at the blue sky as he waited.

Leaning his head back against the railing, Ian wondered idly if he could get used to this – if he could get used to talking to someone again, like an old friend…

“Sometimes you what?”

_“Sometimes I get fuckin’ pissed or some shit I guess, just at nothing really, and…”_

Ian smiled as he went silent again – at the way his voice was quieter, thoughtful – because Ian knew that feeling well; he also knew that it wasn’t just _nothing_ that Mickey got pissed at _._ Mickey probably got pissed at _everything_ , just like Ian did – he probably got pissed at being completely alone and helpless sometimes; he probably got pissed at eating the same shit over and over again; he probably got pissed at the darkness; he probably got pissed when his CD player stopped working and had to find a new one; he probably got pissed at never knowing what was coming next or why the fuck he was even still alive…

“So you just need to take it out on something…” Ian said; it wasn’t a question, and Ian was sure Mickey could probably hear the smile in his voice.

_“Yea, Gallagher. I guess.”_

The way he said this was soft, kind – like he was smiling, too – and it made Ian wonder if they were still talking about _Them_ , or if somehow Mickey was now referring to his angry outburst over the radio the night before; maybe Mickey had just had a bad day, and Ian had been the only thing around to take it out on; Ian couldn’t blame him for that, just like he couldn’t blame himself for the physical reaction his body had to stress sometimes.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” Ian admitted then, rubbing his finger along his lips as he cleared his throat. “For prying last night, I umm, I didn’t mean to.”

_“Relax, man. I just…”_

Ian waited through the silence and the static; he wasn’t going to push this time – he got the feeling he couldn’t push when it came to Mickey Milkovich.

_“I just don’t remember how to do this.”_

Those words trickled through the speaker so quietly that Ian barely heard them, but he did, and they sat on the edge of his being for a moment, resting in that space of loneliness inside himself that he tried so hard to avoid, even though he no longer knew anything beyond it.

“Do what?”

_“I dunno just…be with someone.”_

The breeze picked up along the street then, sending scattered leaves down the sidewalk as it brushed through Ian’s hair, curling it around his face, and for just a moment, Ian closed his eyes, imagining the soft touch against his skin was someone’s fingers – his dark-haired stranger returning once more to comfort him; but all at once and way too soon, the touch was gone, and Ian smiled to himself as he replaced that distant image of _someone_ in his head with Mickey – wondering if Mickey had dark hair and weathered hands – and although Ian knew exactly what Mickey had meant by _be with someone_ – knew that he meant he didn’t know how to just _be_ around people anymore – it didn’t stop Ian from hoping that maybe he meant something…more.

That almost scared Ian more than the darkness.

“Me neither,” he replied, his voice much too soft for his own liking, but if it ruined anything in the moment, well, he wouldn’t be able to tell. “Hey but uhh, I have to go for a bit.” Ian stood, arching his back and cracking his bones as the sun beat down on him from above, not actually wanting to go but knowing he not only had things to do, but needed a little time to just… _be_. “I have to fix some things before nightfall.”

There was another long hiss of static, and Ian realized absently that his only thought these days seemed to be just what the fuck Mickey Milkovich was thinking or doing at any given moment…

_“Nine o’clock again?”_ Mickey asked finally, and it was hopeful, which fanned the flames of Ian’s spark.

“Yea, Mickey. Sure.”

~

Ian stood facing the closed door at the top of the stairs, his breath hitching in his throat – trembling through his nose – as he stared at the dancing dots behind his closed eyes, the thrumming of his heart reverberating inside his ears.

Opening his mouth, Ian tried to calm himself as he counted silently, but the ragged exhales were only coming out as harsh whistles, giving a sound to his madness.

It had been over a year since Ian had stepped foot inside Debbie’s room – since he had stepped foot inside _any_ of their rooms besides his own – and the knowledge that he was going to have to do it now if he wanted the propane blow torch was eating him alive.

“I know you can hear me Debs,” he whispered to nobody, his words high-pitched and off. “Please don’t be inside there…”

Ian swallowed, reaching out for the knob as the memory of his hallucination of Debbie in the grocery store tormented him; his hand was shaking uncontrollably, and as soon as his sweating skin touched the handle, he let go, a desperate sound escaping his chest as he turned suddenly and paced to the far end of the hallway, reaching Carl and Liam’s door before turning back.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he hissed, tears beginning to escape down his face as he pinched the bridge of his nose, the tightness in his chest only growing as he walked back and forth, back and forth.

Franny’s crib was still in there, collecting dust in the shadows; Ian could see it in his mind, and he tried to focus on something else, letting a torrent of random shit run through his head as he tried to choose _anything_ else to think about: how to strip a weapon; the average distance a person can walk in an hour; how far away Minneapolis was; how many steps were in Willis Tower…

“Okay,” he breathed, turning once more at the opposite end of the hall and striding with purpose back towards Debbie’s room, and when he reached it this time, he thought of the sunset over Lake Michigan as he blindly grabbed the handle and pushed open the door.

The blow torch was against the wall by the head of Debbie’s bed – Ian remembered – and he tried not to look at anything else in the faint light that came in around him as he stepped inside, the floor creaking under a weight that had long been absent.

_Hi Ian!_ Debbie said suddenly, like she was right there beside him, and all the air left Ian’s lungs in an instant; he squished his eyes shut, turning his head slightly as a low growl escaped his throat, his chest squeezing so hard that he was sure he was about to stop breathing altogether.

“No no no no,” he panted, and didn’t bother opening his eyes as he swiped blindly through the darkness, finally grabbing a hold of what he was looking for and pulling it up to his chest.

_Need some help?_

“No Debs,” he answered, knowing full well her voice wasn’t real and that he was crazy as fuck, but he had to say _something_ to keep himself as sane as possible while he turned back for the door.

The tiny table and chairs where Franny was supposed to sit one day were in the middle of the floor, and Ian nearly fell face first into the hallway as he tripped over them, but he opened his eyes in time to catch himself on the doorframe, and he gazed at nothing but the floor as he reached back and pulled the door closed, the sudden silence surrounding him absolutely deafening compared to the blood crashing through his ears and the gasps escaping his chest as he tried to breathe.

“You’re okay,” Ian whimpered, his back smacking against the wall as he slid down onto the ground, dropping the torch beside him so he could cling to his chest, as if his own touch could somehow hold all his broken pieces together.

A thousand images were dancing through his mind, all of them so fleeting that he couldn’t focus on a single one, but he could _hear_ them – he could hear every voice as if he were flipping through the channels on the TV with the volume cranked on high.

_Where’s Liam?_

_Gotta any cash I could borrow?_

_Fuck off, Carl!_

_Nah I gotta work tonight…_

_Can you watch Franny for a sec?_

_Hey Ian, are you at home?_

_Are you at home alone?_

_Are you alone, Ian?_

_Ian?_

_Ian…_

“Shut up shut up shut up shut up,” Ian snapped, his fingers intertwining in his hair as his lungs continued to close further, further, his heart hammering so hard he was sure he was having a heart attack, and every single instinct in his body told him to pick up the phone and call his brother – call for help; but those things were a distant memory.

Ian turned his head then, glancing down the hallway as he searched for something to hold onto, his chest heaving; sunlight was pouring into the bathroom and out through its open door, and Ian wanted suddenly to get to it – he wanted nothing more than to be in that sunlight so that maybe it would cast out his demons.

A numbness had started to tingle out into his extremities and his lips, so turning himself onto his hands and knees so he could crawl along the floor was a struggle, but he did it, and when he finally managed to shuffle himself down into that wedge of light, his chest opened suddenly as he inhaled a single, deep breath, the blood moving away from his ears at once as his monsters went back into hiding.

“Go away.” Ian leaned his back against the doorjamb and turned his head towards the window, staring unblinkingly at it so that the bright light could burn his pupils.

A glint from the sink caught his eye then – like the flicker of a distant star – and he turned his gaze towards it; the walkie-talkie was sitting beside the tap, and it was as if a jolt of electricity brought Ian back to life then, and he pushed himself up once more, reaching up to the radio and pulling it down from the porcelain before turning it on.

“Mickey?” Ian whispered, lips pressing against the plastic, and he could hear how his voice sounded – he could hear how fucking desperate and lost he was. “Mickey?”

Chewing on his bottom lip, Ian tried to stop it from trembling as he waited, sunlight catching the tears in his eyes and shooting tiny rainbows across his vision as he hoped that by some chance, Mickey would have his radio on, despite not having a reason to until nine o’clock…

_“Ian?”_ his voice came suddenly, and Ian’s head fell back against the wall at the sound, a sob escaping his chest as he began to fall apart. _“Ian what’s wrong?”_

Ian hugged the radio tight against his body, feeling Mickey’s voice vibrate against his ribs, and Ian imagined that Mickey was right there in front of him, pressing his face to his chest to make sure his heart was still beating.

“Tell me something,” Ian sighed then, pulling his knees up as they began to bounce against the floor, the voices in his head slowly dying away, but not quite gone completely.

_“Tell you what?”_ Mickey snorted, and the anxious hint of a laugh escaped Ian’s chest at the sound.

“Fuck, anything, please Mickey just, tell me something.”

There was silence for a moment, then two, causing Ian’s legs to bounce faster; he knew Mickey probably thought he was fucking crazy, considering he was now on the verge of a breakdown for the second time in the past twenty-four hours, but apparently Mickey didn’t seem to notice, or, he just didn’t seem to care.

_“Okay,”_ Mickey said then, and he was soft suddenly – genuine – making Ian think that Mickey could in fact hear how scared he was. _“Umm, I’m on a run right now, not far, just to the stores…”_

Ian closed his eyes and breathed, letting the air work its way deep into his lungs as he focused on nothing more than Mickey’s voice – the pitch of it, the cadence, the volume…

_“I ripped my favourite pair of jeans the other day when I fell because I’m a fuckin’ idiot so, I need new ones…”_

A smile pulled at Ian’s lips, trying hard to take hold.

_“I’m not naked or anything though, like, I have other pants…”_

It took hold, and Ian felt himself grin through his tears in the sunshine as everything but Mickey began to fade away.

_“Anyways, I wanted to see if I could find a new pair and maybe some fuckin’ vegetable soup ‘cause I’ve eaten all mine and I have a craving so…”_

Vegetable soup: what an unbelievably boring, normal thing; but it filled Ian with such a sudden, random wave of happiness that the feeling of Franny’s little table against his shoe drifted out of his mind then, and he sunk further against the wall.

_“Oh I also patched up my jacket, which I fucked up when I fell; never thought sewing would be one of my specialties but here we are at the end of the fuckin’ world so…”_

Sewing, vegetable soup, swearing. Ian’s smile grew, and so, too, did that flutter inside his chest that made him just as weary as it did happy; finding out more things about Mickey Milkovich was becoming something Ian looked forward to – something that could pull him back from the brink.

“Do you have any other talents, Mickey Milkovich?” Ian ventured then, and his voice was steady now, but it wasn’t lost on Ian the hint of flirtatious undertone that snuck its way in without him meaning it to.

Nothing but silence came back through for a few moments, and Ian wondered if maybe that had been too forward…

_“Guess you’ll just have to find out.”_ Mickey breathed low and long into the speaker before cutting out again, and if a single breath could stop the hands of time, Ian was sure it would have been that one.

Ian’s smile widened infinitely as his heart kicked inside of him at the sound; it was the kind of kick that brought with it images of tender kisses and warm, naked bodies mingling together in the darkness – not the kind that brought with it unwanted terrors – and fuck, Ian wanted nothing more than to look into Mickey’s eyes in that moment, just to see what was hidden there; maybe even feel that breath on his face...

Completely distracted now, Ian rejoiced in Mickey’s ability to turn his mood in an instant as he struggled to remember what it felt like to try and decipher someone else’s words – someone else’s feelings. Had Mickey meant that generically? Or had he meant that maybe one day he was planning on them meeting, and Ian could find out for himself…

“Are you saying that you’re coming to Chicago?” Ian queried, trying to act like he was joking – like he wasn’t thinking too hard about it – but he knew he probably failed miserably, the echo of those words seeping through him as his blood moved south, awakening the spaces between his thighs and trying to tingle them into action.

Brining his finger up to his mouth so he could chew absently on his nail as distraction, Ian grinned stupidly around it, realizing suddenly that he was a fucking teenage boy again – a teenage boy with a crush – and things seemed…hopeful.

All at once, Ian wasn’t sure how he’d managed to live for two years _not_ feeling like this.

_“Actually I’ll talk to you about that at nine,”_ Mickey answered then, his voice suddenly back to normal, hiding any hint of flirtatiousness. _“‘Cause right now I need to go…”_

Ian stood up then – his legs no longer shaky or numb – as his annoying heart returned to its chaotic rhythm within his ribcage, and he wondered just what the fuck Mickey Milkovich had to say to him about coming to Chicago at nine, and if he could gather up the courage at some point between now and then to wrap his hands around himself once more to ease the pressure that was growing in his jeans at the thought.

Ian glanced at his watch, and was fucking irritated to see it was only just after one-thirty.

_Is Mickey actually coming here?_

The idea set off fireworks in his nerve-endings, and all he wanted to say back was: _no, talk to me about it now, please._

But he refrained.

“Okay,” he sighed instead, trying not to sound too disappointed. “I’ll talk to you then.”

_“Ian?”_ Mickey’s voice came back then, just as Ian was about to switch the walkie off, and he glanced down at the slats, noticing that he was beginning to imagine a face against the black plastic every time Mickey said anything whatsoever.

“Yea?”

_“You okay?”_

Tears tried to choke their way back out suddenly at the gentleness in his tone, but Ian swallowed them down, trying not to let the simple kindness of a complete stranger turn him into a blubbering goddamn mess.

“Yea, Mick. I am now.”

Ian gave him that little crumb of _feelings_ and left it, flicking off his radio before anything more could be said, and fuck it, let Mickey take that and run with it, or, let him take it and bury it somewhere deep and impossible to reach; either way, Ian had found the one thing that was shining a light into his darkness, and there was no way he was going to let that go.

~

The deer came back as the sun beat down onto Ian’s bare shoulders in the late afternoon breeze; he was standing at the bottom of the porch steps in nothing but a pair of jeans and boots, tossing splintered pieces of doorframe into the yard as he cleaned up the carnage, his sweaty hair dangling down into his face.

Wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow, Ian glanced up to find her standing there beside his tiny cornfield, her eyes intent on him as her ears flicked back and forth, keeping a single fly from landing.

There was something about staring back into her eyes in the quiet of the world that made Ian think that maybe she knew all of his secrets – like she knew who he was and the things that plagued him; like she knew that today was a day she needed to make herself seen, for nothing more than to reaffirm Ian’s belief that he was no longer alone.

“So there’s this guy,” Ian said then, eyeing the doe as he bent down to pick up one of the steel brackets that had been torn away from the doorframe. “I don’t know who he is or where he came from but, he’s _someone_ , y’know?”

Dark eyes followed him curiously as he walked back up the porch steps, dropping the bracket down onto the old wood with a clang before strolling back into the front yard.

The sound didn’t deter her.

Maybe it was weird, but Ian didn’t feel like he was half as crazy talking to a deer as he did when he heard Debbie speak to him from his memories; and maybe it was weird that after going so long without having someone to talk to, Ian was still choosing to voice these things to a deer instead of Mickey, because…

…well, because these weren’t things Ian wanted Mickey to hear.

“Do you think it’s possible to feel things that don’t make sense?” Ian asked then, actually half expecting a response as he squatted down against the grass, facing her like they were having a real conversation. “There’s this flutter in my chest, y’know? But I can’t figure out if it’s what I think it is, or if it’s just…” Ian stopped, feeling his emotions reappear as he glanced away towards the street, collecting himself for a moment before returning her gaze. “…Or if it’s just thankfulness at not having to be alone anymore.”

The doe’s ears shifted then, picking up a distant sound, and Ian turned his head, following her gaze to a pair of birds squabbling in a tree at the end of the block.

“You know what scares me the most?” Ian looked back towards her before standing, slowly, taking a single step in her direction, as if she may just let him pet her one day if she could trust him enough.

Even though he was talking to nobody, Ian almost didn’t want to admit this next part, as if just saying the words out loud would confirm his worst fears – would confirm the one thing that had been eating away at him since Mickey’s voice had first come through that speaker.

But if he were going to say it, Ian figured she would be the one that would listen.

“What scares me most,” he swallowed, taking another cautious step towards her. “Is that I don’t know if he’s real or not…”

The deer turned then as Ian got too close for comfort and darted back towards the alley once more before disappearing from sight, taking with her Ian’s confession and never even looking back to give him an answer.

It wasn’t the thought of needing someone so suddenly that scared Ian – it wasn’t even the thought of meeting him one day, just to lose him the next…

No, the thought that scared Ian Gallagher more than anything – especially after what had happened in Debbie’s room – was that Mickey Milkovich may not even be real at all, but just another voice that came to try and comfort him when all hope seemed lost.

~

Twisting a new propane bottle to the blow torch, Ian set to work welding the brackets back to the doorframe the best he could; it wasn’t an actual welder’s torch – Debbie’s only worked with electricity – but it was all he had, so Ian squinted his eyes slightly against the flame and the brightening metal, trying not to burn the whole fucking house down as he dragged the flame closer to the wooden beams he had brought up from the basement to strengthen the jamb where splinters had broken free.

Music was blasting into his ears from his CD player in his back pocket, but it still didn’t keep his mind from wandering continuously back to Mickey, which is why he had put the goddamn music on in the first place; he couldn’t’ afford to be distracted – couldn’t risk making a stupid mistake because his mangled mind was too busy trying to shove doubts into every corner of his being, all the while his equally ravaged heart was trying to give Ian _feelings_ he hadn’t known in way too long.

It was a constant tug-of-war inside of him; a non-stop, heavy-weight match-up between the fear that his newfound hope was just a figment of his imagination, and the flutter that told him it was as real as anything Ian had ever known.

“Jesus Ian,” he spat, annoyed with himself as he reached back to turn the volume up to max, but the action only made him wonder if Mickey listened to music to keep errant thoughts from entering his mind as well, causing Ian to nearly burn himself on the glowing metal. “Fuck!”

Flicking the torch off, Ian set it down by his feet, completely convinced and resigned to the fact that his anxiety wasn’t going anywhere today.

Most days, his anxiety was more stubborn than he was.

Strolling back out into the sun, Ian rubbed his hands over his damp face as he glanced towards the sky, watching that same murmuration of starlings float their way through the blue. He wanted to radio Mickey again, for nothing more than to be sure of him – he was positive that if Mickey just told him what he was up to, he _had_ to be real, because his mind couldn’t possibly make up the life of some stranger, could it?

Then again, Ian was no longer sure just what his mind was capable of anymore, and if Mickey _was_ nothing more than a figment of his imagination, maybe his mind could just make up whatever the fuck it wanted to.

Fuck, Ian wished he had never even voiced that thought out loud, because now it was the only thing he could think about.

Of all the things Ian had imagined feeling if he ever met someone else here at the end of the world, doubt at his own sanity was never one of them; but maybe that’s what happens when you go from having nothing to having _something_ – you start to question if it’s all some sort of cosmic illusion, about to be ripped from your grasp at any second.

If anyone knew that well, it was Ian – it was the Gallagher’s. Growing up with nothing but whatever the fuck they could salvage had somehow prepared Ian for this kind of life, which also meant that he knew some things – a lot of things – were just too good to be true.

“Stop.” Ian squeezed his fingers over his temples, trying to dislodge the doubt. “This is typical PTSD behavior,” he mumbled, remembering the lines he had all but memorized in his book. “Persistent, distorted, and exaggerated negative beliefs or expectations about oneself, others, or the world. Persistent fear, horror, anger, guilt, or shame. Persistent inability to experience positive emotions…”

That last one always managed to hurt him more than all the others, but now that there was actually a reason for Ian to be positive, it seemed to hit him harder, because he was still finding it impossible to hold onto it.

How could anyone blame him, though? Everything positive Ian had ever known had been ripped away, and now he was left with nothing but unusable, broken tools to try and put himself back together with.

“Problems with concentration,” Ian blurted then, as thoughts continued to race through him.

That was another symptom, and today it was in full fucking swing.

Turning on a dime, Ian headed down the walkway beside the house towards the chicken coop, suddenly needing more than anything to just be near something that lived.

Ian unlocked the door and stepped inside the enclosure, promptly sitting down into the grass and letting his head fall into his hands as a wave of tiredness collided into him out of nowhere, and he no longer wanted to do anything at all.

He was crashing and crashing hard – crashing from a long night of being terrified; crashing from a long two years of hearing nothing beyond the sound of his own voice and his own tainted fucking thoughts.

“Hey Fiona,” Ian whispered then, turning towards desperation as one of the hens pecked her way past him, not even giving him the time of day, which actually made him smile a little bit.

_Hey, Sweetface_ , his sister answered, and he closed his eyes; it wasn’t a hallucination this time though, it was simply his mind envisioning her on purpose – conjuring her up so Ian could imagine just what it is she would say if she were still there with him. _What’s up?_

Fiona: forever his voice of reason.

“I’m tired.”

_I know, but you’ve been tired before._

“Not like this.”

_Maybe not, but you’re Ian._

“What the fuck does that mean?”

_It means you’ll find a way. You always do._

“What if I don’t want to…”

_You do want to, that’s why we’re here talkin’._

Ian felt himself try and smile.

“Yea, you’re right.”

_I usually am._

“Know it all, too.”

_Yup. That’s why you’re talkin’ to me instead of Lip._

“Fair enough.”

_So what else is there to know?_

“I just…” Ian trailed off, listening to the soft cooing of his poultry as they got closer to his still body. “I just don’t think I know what’s real anymore.”

_Does it matter?_

“What?” Despite basically talking to himself, Ian felt his hairs rise at that.

_You’re not talking about just anything, Ian. You’re talking about Mickey._

Mickey.

“Yea, I guess I am…”

_Stop sabotaging a good thing, Sweetface…_

“Whatta you mean?”

_If he’s real and he’s out there, it means you’re not alone anymore. If he’s not real and you’ve snapped completely, it still means you’re not alone anymore._

“But I _am_ alone. If it’s all in my head that means there’s nobody Fiona, I have nothing…”

_Mickey’s already pulled you off the brink more than once, Ian. That was real. He did that. Whether he_ is _just a figment of your imagination or an actual, breathing, South Side piece of trash doesn’t matter; all that matters is that whoever he is, Ian, he’s healing you…_

Ian’s head snapped up and his eyes opened, the outside world around him coming into a crystal clear focus as those distant words drifted into him in his sister’s singsong cadence and calmed him – as those words ebbed outwards into the coldest, farthest parts of him and lit tiny fires to keep him warm.

Because Fiona was right – who Mickey was didn’t matter right now; what mattered – what was keeping him so focused and close – was _what_ Mickey was to him:

A voice in the endless silence.

~

After that, work came easy. Ian finished welding the brackets and securing the doorframe, only managing to burn himself twice, and both times were from nothing more than pure stupidity, not wandering thoughts.

Reforming the wire was harder; Ian spent the better part of two hours shoving against the second door, pushing one section of the wire in before pulling another section out, molding it back into some semblance of security so he could properly close and bolt the door.

There was nothing he could do about the broken glass besides sweep it up and dump it into a trash bin out back, which only made Ian laugh to himself in amusement – it’s not like anybody was going to be stopping by to pick up the garbage any time soon.

Turning back towards the house, Ian paused in the afternoon heat, setting the broom and dustpan down onto the grass before glancing absently at his bare shoulders to see just how red they were becoming.

“Shit,” he huffed, poking absently at the pink skin, and decided it was probably time to actually eat something and put a goddamn shirt on.

The tomatoes were just starting to blossom, and a couple small ones were hanging off the vines, green and bitter. Ian picked one and popped it into his mouth – remembering absently he had to make that fucking scarecrow before that deer came back to ruin his life.

The small smoke shed was behind him, so Ian swiveled to open the door, and the smell of dried meat and salt entered into his nostrils at once, making his stomach growl.

Never once in his first twenty years of life had Ian ever eaten venison, or anything even remotely _wild_ ; the closest he had ever come was mystery meat from a can that Fiona had gotten on sale.

Now, it was all he knew besides eggs.

The deer had moved into the city not long after the foxes and the birds – the endless quiet drawing them in like moths to a flame. At first, Ian had been reluctant to kill anything beside the _things_ that dwelled in the shadows – his heart had just been too big and soft for such actions; but once Lip had killed his first, well, Ian wasn’t the type to be outdone.

After that first time, it was easy – going into the silent places of the city with his rifle on his back, his presence becoming less and less of a threat as the years passed him by.

Now, he could basically walk straight up to one and pull the trigger.

As Ian grabbed a handful of smoked jerky – a technique Lip had perfected in the first two years – he thought about the doe that seemed determined to know his secrets. Never once had he thought about killing her, because he was pretty sure that – no matter how ridiculous it sounded – she was the only living thing in his world that saw him for who he truly was, and there was something about that that Ian considered almost…sacred; besides, he’d taken one down a few weeks before when he’d broken his scope, and he had enough to last him a good long while.

Heading back into the sun, Ian closed the door behind him, wondering absently if maybe one day Mickey would know him, too – would _really_ know him – including all of the things he was too afraid to say out loud outside of his nightmares.

Ian tore a chunk of meat off with his teeth – his jaw so goddamn used to chewing the stuff that it no longer ached – and went for the back door; he was just about to hop up onto the steps when something caught his eye, and he stepped back automatically, glancing down at the shifted screen that sat beneath the stairs, causing his brows to furrow.

The screen was popped out of place and pushed to the side a little, and Ian was absolutely positive it hadn’t been like that the day before.

Ian took another step back, the jerky in his hands beginning to shake as he remembered not just the bodies that had been pressing against his door all night long, but the darkness in the spaces of the house’s foundation, and how those spaces led to the basement…

“Fuck,” Ian hissed, his heart gaining speed as he jogged up the steps at once and ran his way to the basement door, closing his eyes as he leaned himself gently against it and pressed his ear into the wood, listening.

At first there was nothing but quiet, as always; but then Ian heard it – just the tiniest whisper of movement beyond the door and his eyes flew open immediately, scanning the kitchen and dining room for his gun as he wondered absently – errantly – if every time he spoke to Mickey Milkovich he was jinxing himself; because he was going to have to kill one now, and he hoped more than anything that no godforsaken flashbacks of his last day with Lip gripped him while he was in the middle of the basement’s darkness.

The Sig Sauer was sitting on the tabletop, so Ian grabbed it, tossing his unfinished lunch onto the counter and chambering a round before palming the gun between his hands.

Grabbing one of the flashlights off the washing machine, Ian flicked it on and shoved it between his jaw and his shoulder, using the natural tilt of his head as he aimed to his advantage as the light shone out in front of him.

Ian breathed – letting his hammering heart draw him inwards and focus him instead of deter him – and reached for the handle.

One day, Ian hoped that doors weren’t going to be such frightening things.

Swinging it open, Ian stepped back, ass pressing up against the dryer as he raised his gun in the beam of light. The stairs were empty, but Ian could hear one of Them shuffle its way further into the shadows somewhere below, a guttural sound escaping the dank basement that made Ian’s hairs rise.

“Okay, okay,” he hissed, steadying himself the best he could as he took a hesitant step forward, then another, reaching the top of the stairs and scanning the flashlight down to the dim landing.

As a child, the open spaces between the stairs had scared him; now, they were fucking terrifying.

Taking one more deep breath, Ian all but flew down the first section of stairs, slamming his back hard against the wall at the landing halfway down before turning to shine the light into the open space of the basement below – scanning his gun over the shadows, the couch, the tables full of batteries – as his heartbeat quickened, adrenaline making everything seem like it was in pixilated HD as his palms began to sweat again.

“I know you’re down here, fucker,” he whispered, and it must not have been quiet enough, because he heard Them then, reacting to his voice, and Ian shifted his flashlight towards the sound – towards the panel on the wall that led into the crawlspace beneath the foundation. 

A wave of relief washed through him then, from nothing more than the knowledge that it wasn’t actually inside the house – not yet – but was hunkered down in the space beyond the wall.

For now, the Gallagher house still hadn’t been tainted.

Stepping forward like his fear was no longer a concern, Ian went directly to the panel, banging his hand hard against it without even thinking, and the sound only grew from within as the _thing_ in the shadows crawled suddenly closer towards him, drawn to the noise.

“Yea, come on!” Ian yelled, and the heart in his chest nearly stilled completely as he grabbed onto the top corner of the panel and ripped it away from the wall, stepping so far back into the room that he nearly tripped over the couch as one of Them appeared suddenly at the threshold, causing his eyes to focus so intensely he was sure he could kill it with a look.

It was a woman; her shirt was ripped and torn to filthy shreds, but the remnants of a bra were still somehow visible underneath after all this time, and her fitted blue jeans were so worn and grimy that Ian couldn’t tell if they had actually ever been blue at all.

Ian eyed the way her long hair was matted and full of dirt from hiding in distant corners of God knows where, and he could see that her own eyes were nearly entirely white from blindness and lack of sunlight, the pale shade of them complimenting the sick, grey tone of her skin as purple veins showed harsh beneath its surface.

She froze in the beam of light that emanated out from Ian’s chin, the brightness making her eyes blink uncontrollably as she dragged herself forward suddenly, falling down onto the cement floor from the hole in the wall as her body jerked in awkward, inhuman motions.

“Jesus,” Ian gagged, the smell of her reaching him in a wave of nausea that wasn’t just from the odor.

Her head shot up at the word escaping his lips, and Ian raised his gun, watching as she pushed herself up, crouching on her hands like an animal, her head twisting as she listened blindly.

Holding his breath for a moment to keep himself silent, Ian stared at her, looking for any hint of familiarity in that face even though he knew it was a horrible fucking idea – because if he found it, pulling the trigger wouldn’t be as easy as he needed it to be.

Luckily, she was completely unfamiliar, the ring that still sat on her finger gaudy and expensive – not a piece of jewelry that came from South Side.

“I’m sorry,” he said then, loud enough that it would draw her attention in the worst way, and chewed absently at the inside of his lip as she came forward then in a flurry, a sound escaping her chest that was so fucking primal that pulling the trigger was suddenly nothing more than a necessity that no longer had any consequences.

The bullet entered her skull like a hot knife gliding through butter, and she immediately fell like a sack of bricks onto the floor in front of the couch, only a small, thick, black puddle of blood dripping its way out and staining Ian’s home.

Ian stood still for a second, staring down at the lifeless body as he allowed himself to breathe again, and the way her hair wrapped around her face – hiding her eyes – made him thoughtful suddenly, like maybe she was actually just sleeping, and nothing at all had ever been wrong with her.

But that was bullshit.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and this time he actually meant it – this time, he meant he was sorry for what he was about to do, not what he had already done.

Striding forward, Ian tossed the flashlight and gun onto the couch before grabbing onto her bare ankles and dragging her backwards up the stairs, her head bouncing sickeningly off of every step as Ian pulled with every muscle he had, and nothing about it seemed at all out of place.

~

There was a pile of wood stacked up in the alley beneath a tarp – leftovers from winter that Ian hadn’t needed to burn – and he dug through it now, grabbing armfuls and piling them onto the scraps of doorframe in the makeshift fire pit he and Lip had made in the alley.

Absolutely nothing whatsoever was going through his mind beyond getting this done as soon as possible, so Ian didn’t even allow himself to think as he arranged the wood, leaving enough space for airflow before pulling out his box of matches and lighting it in the afternoon sun, the dry wood catching so fast that sweat began to pour from his still-exposed torso and forehead within seconds.

Glancing back behind him, Ian eyed the woman’s body where it was curled awkwardly in the grass beside his brother’s garden, and despite everything, Ian thought that something about it was almost beautiful – the hunched over form of one rotted existence sitting ironically amongst the blooming life that fed him.

Turning, he strode over to her body and lifted it gently into his arms, his face wincing from the closeness and the smell as he carried her to the engulfing flames and dropped her in, sparks flying upwards into the sky, burning bright against the blue as if they were taking her soul with them.

~

Ian didn’t feel much like eating, so he fixed the screen under the back stairs instead, ensuring it was nailed into place and reinforced before going down into the basement and doing the same to the panel in the wall that led to the foundation of all that he had; and by the time he was done, the sun was beginning its slow descent into the western horizon, and not a single cloud had entered into that sky to darken his day any more than it already had been.

~

_Hell House_ was longer than Ian remembered; he sat in the chair by the front window and skimmed page after page, glancing at his watch every now and then as he waited for nine o’clock to finally arrive.

The more time that passed, the more Ian found that excitement was no longer the only thing he felt when talking to Mickey was so close at hand ; he felt peace now, too, and maybe like that hopefulness in his chest that had sprung from the earth on that very first day – when Mickey’s voice had burst through the static – was continuing to grow upwards towards his sun, and he fucking rejoiced in it, letting Fiona’s words in his head try and calm him into some semblance of happiness.

For now, Mickey was as real as he was ever going to be.

~

At a little before nine – after Ian had cleaned himself within an inch of his life and finally put his dry clothes away – he reattached the barricades over the windows, the hyper-vigilance that came with his PTSD working overtime after the events of the last twenty-four hours, causing him to recheck every lock, bolt, and weld at least three times, even going into the basement to check on his latest handiwork to ensure it hadn’t somehow given way since the afternoon before finally making his way up the back stairs to his bedroom.

Ian’s body ached from sleeping in a bathtub and a day full of manual labour, but it also sunk down towards the floor with tiredness, and he felt like he was actually being sucked into the earth as he flopped down into his bed, grabbing his walkie off the table beside him and triple-checking to make sure he had extra batteries, just in case Mickey wanted to talk to him until sun-up – which Ian kind of wished he would, exhaustion be damned.

The walkie hissed to life when Ian flicked it on, and after struggling for a moment to decide whether or not he should speak first – whether or not he should be the one to initiate – he finally figured that small formalities like that had probably gone out the window the same minute civilization had.

What was the point now in wasting time?

“Mick?” Ian asked into the static, and he didn’t know when he had decided that that was what he was going to call Mickey in his softer, more vulnerable moments, but it just continued to come out, and it just continued to feel right.

_“Hey,”_ Mickey came back, the quietness of him making every bad thing in Ian’s memories disappear, leaving nothing more than himself, his beating heart, and the man on the other end of the line.

“Hey.” Ian smiled, pushing himself up a little onto his pillows in the light from his lantern.

_“You okay?”_

Tracing his thumb back and forth along the slats on the front of the walkie, Ian once again imagined Mickey’s face there – like it were a FaceTime call instead of radio – and he tried to picture just what Mickey looked like based on nothing more than his voice and the way he was.

Ian wanted to ask him – he wanted to ask him what colour his hair was; what colour his eyes were; how tall he was; what his favourite thing to eat for breakfast had been before all of this began, and he wondered whether or not it would be something he would maybe be able to make for him one day…

Ian wanted to ask Mickey a million fucking things about himself, just to prove that he was real, and that Ian actually had a reason to feel the way he did.

“I’m okay,” he replied, knowing it was probably never going to be true again, but Mickey didn’t need to know that, not just yet.

Absently, Ian also wondered just how much it would freak Mickey out if he told him he heard his sister speak to him sometimes in the quiet – that he’d even seen her once in the abandoned aisle of a grocery store…

 _“Rough day?”_ There was genuine interest in that question, and it was comforting to know that maybe Mickey cared a little bit about what was happening with Ian just as much as Ian cared about what was happening with Mickey.

“Yea, They broke down the door last night and ummm…” Ian trailed off, glancing towards his barricaded window as he remembered the woman. “One got into my basement.”

_“Shit.”_

“Yea.”

_“Did you…?”_

“Yea.”

 _“Jesus, sorry I jinxed it,”_ Mickey snorted again, and Ian felt his face nearly split in two once more, not just at that little laugh that was starting to become his favourite sound, but at the fact that Mickey seemed to be just as convinced he was jinxing Ian’s good luck as Ian was.

“Yea, I blame you completely.” Ian tried to turn up the sarcasm, hoping for nothing more than to make Mickey smile.

 _“Easy killer,”_ Mickey spat back, but there was no harm in it, and Ian could tell he had succeeded.

Sitting amongst the static for a moment, Ian tried to figure out what exactly he should say next, and he felt a little silly because of it – maybe a little shy – as that flutter in his chest returned like the wings of a thousand butterflies, caressing the ribs within him and making him softer somehow, he was sure of it.

“I saw a deer today,” he admitted then, and maybe it was _too_ soft, but after the harshness he had endured for four years, Ian kind of thought he didn’t altogether care.

Maybe the time for constant harshness was over.

_“Oh yea? You shoot the fucker?”_

Ian laughed so loudly at that he startled himself, his belly actually shaking so hard that the bed frame moved a little against the floor as literal tears filled his eyes.

Apparently there would always be harshness when Mickey Milkovich was involved…

Reaching up, Ian wiped one of his tears away and held out his hand, looking at the tiny droplet and wondering when the fuck was the last time a tear had fallen from his eyes from amusement instead of heartbreak.

“No,” Ian snorted into the walkie between giggles, his breath hitching in his throat as he tried to compose himself. “I talked to it.”

There was silence form the other end at that, which only made Ian laugh more; he tried to imagine Mickey’s brown/hazel/blue/green eyes as they stared at that radio in his weathered hands, expressive dark eyebrows pulling together maybe in affronted bewilderment.

_“You fuckin’ what!?”_

Ian wondered absently how insane he looked laughing alone in his bedroom in an empty city on an empty planet.

“I talked to it!” he repeated, reining in his laughing fit. “It didn’t talk back or anything though…” he added abruptly, feeling suddenly like maybe Mickey would know how crazy he was.

 _“Oh well thank fuck,”_ Mickey hissed, and Ian could hear the facetiousness. _“Talkin’ to deer is fine and all but if they answer back well, then we have a real problem…”_

“Oh shut up, Mickey.” Ian was smiling, and for some reason, he didn’t worry in the least about how those words sounded; he didn’t think Mickey Milkovich would ever take sarcasm the wrong way.

_“Don’t tell me to shut up, Snow White! I’m not the one talkin’ to the fuckin’ wildlife.”_

In that moment, it was like Ian’s soul was floating up out of his body into the stratosphere as he listened to that cantankerous fucking voice in the silence of his room, huffs of laughter escaping his own lips that made him feel like he was twenty again as his cheeks started to hurt from nothing but joy.

Rolling over onto his side then, Ian laid the walkie on the pillow beside him and glanced at it, maybe wishing a little that it was Mickey laying there beside him instead, his body so close that Ian could feel the warmth of it if he closed his eyes.

All at once, Ian realized that he didn’t actually care what Mickey looked like in the least. He didn’t actually care what colour his hair or his eyes were, or how tall he was; all Ian cared about was that Mickey had appeared out of nowhere – like some kind of goddamn miracle – and from the very first instant Ian had heard him, Mickey had been making his life better; and if it ever turned out that Mickey _was_ entirely in his head, Ian thought he might just die.

“So did you get new pants?” he asked then, dislodging that thought from his mind as he tried to focus on the good things and not sabotage it, like Fiona had told him to.

_“Yea, thank fuck. Took a few stores but I finally found a pair in my size.”_

Ian wanted to ask what size, but he refrained, not wanting to let the idea of a stranger’s ass get his dick hard at the most inopportune time…

“Vegetable soup?”

_“Ten whole cans, man!”_

Ian smiled at the pride in his voice.

“Must have been a heavy haul back…”

_“Nah it was alright, wasn’t too far…”_

There was another comfortable silence, and Ian chewed on his cheek as he remembered absently that there was something Mickey had wanted to talk about – something about maybe coming to Chicago. Ian wondered just how to go about bringing it up; he didn’t want to seem too forward or too fucking desperate, but if Mickey was planning on coming, Ian just needed to know, for his own sanity more than anything else.

“Hey what did you wanna talk about by the way?” he ventured finally, settling on straight-forwardness as he slid his fingernail into his mouth so he could chew on that instead.

Ian didn’t know why he was a little nervous, but he was, his heart rate picking up more than it usually did when he spoke to Mickey.

 _“Oh shit, yea. So last night before…”_ Mickey paused, and Ian smiled again, wondering if Mickey was trying not to remind Ian of the bad things that had clearly happened to him overnight.

“Before the shit show?” Ian offered, figuring it was as good a term as any, and maybe it would make the eggshells Mickey was clearly walking on disappear.

 _“Yea.”_ Mickey’s breathy laugh came through the slats, causing Ian to bite into his bottom lip as he stared at the radio on the pillow beside him. _“Anyways, I was going to ask if you’d ever heard a transmission over your radio come out of Toronto?”_

That wasn’t quite what Ian had been expecting, and he felt his forehead pull together at the question, trying not to let his mood sink.

“Umm, no. I’ve only ever…” Ian cleared his throat, wiped a hand over his brow. “I’ve only ever heard you.”

_“A few weeks ago I heard a transmission come over some random frequency as I was scanning the channels, it sounded like it was on a loop or some shit, y’know?”_

No, he didn’t know – Ian had never known anything for two whole years – but he felt his chest tighten a bit at that admission, and he sat up in the dim light, fully enraptured as he picked the walkie back up.

“What did it say?”

_“Something about a survivor’s colony in Toronto…”_

Ian’s mouth went dry.

“Did it give a date or anything?” he asked, knowing it could very well just be a fluke – like maybe there had been a colony once, but it was long gone now, nothing remaining but a radio broadcast left on an infinite loop.

_“Nah man it was just on repeat like I said, and I only heard it for a minute before it cut out, so I started flipping through the channels to see if I could find it again and that’s when…”_ Mickey stopped suddenly, and Ian no longer wanted to pry if Mickey didn’t want to open up, but fuck if he was going to let him just leave him hanging like that.

“That’s when what?”

Static hissed out around him for another few seconds, making the thumping in his chest seem so loud that he swore he could hear it.

_“That’s when I heard you, Ian,”_ Mickey admitted then, and his words were so soft – so full of something that sounded to Ian like longing – that it made Ian’s heart ache for him to be closer than he was. _“I swear it was like…”_

Fuck, Ian wished he’d stop doing that.

“Like what?” he asked, and fuck it, he was going to push now, consequences be damned.

_“I dunno man, fate or some shit.”_

Ian fell back against his mattress and let the walkie fall hard onto his chest as he closed his eyes, feeling his lip tremble the smallest bit as more emotion climbed its way up his walls; he thought of Debbie then – of Fiona – and his silent prayer earlier in the day as he had wondered absently if maybe sometimes, they were looking out from him…

“Yea, I uhh…” Ian sniffed, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. “I know what you mean.”

That comfortable silence returned again, and Ian sunk back into his blankets, letting those butterflies tap their way into his tired bones, bringing them back to life.

_“So anyways, my whole point is,”_ Mickey started, and Ian peeled an eye open to glance at the radio on his chest. _“I’m going to Toronto and umm, Chicago is on the way so…”_

Ian’s heart nearly stopped completely as both his eyes flew open, the walkie slipping from his hands as he fumbled awkwardly to try and pick it up and scramble to the edge of the bed at the same time, placing his feet on the floor to ground himself; and Ian knew that the smile spreading its way across his face was nothing in comparison to the fucking _ecstasy_ that was spreading its way throughout his entire soul.

It wasn’t just elation at the thought of seeing Mickey – his saving grace; it was the thought of seeing someone else at all; it was the thought of looking into someone else’s eyes and maybe – just once – letting them share the burden his life had become, as he did the same for them; just two people being _together_ , at the end of life itself.

“When?” Ian barked then, and the hopeful excitement in his voice wasn’t well hidden.

Mickey laughed a little before replying.

_“I’m gunna have to get some things together first man, I mean, this has been home for four years so…”_

The sudden idea of leaving his own home for another city entirely plagued Ian then at Mickey’s words, trying to crush his joy; but like fuck he was going to let it.

That would be a bridge he would try and cross when they came to it.

“Yea, fair enough.”

 _“But I’m hoping to leave by the end of the week so, I’m thinking based on walking time, I should be in Chicago in a few weeks, as long as nothing…”_ Mickey stopped again, but Ian didn’t blame him this time – he knew what the end of that sentence was, and the thought made bile churn over in his stomach.

“Nothing’s going to happen, Mick.” Ian wouldn’t fucking let it – he would will it into existence if he had to.

_“I know, it’s just a long fucking way, and there’s a lot of dark places between Minneapolis and Chi-Town so…”_

Ian stood, pacing up and down the hall once more before striding into the bathroom to chug from his water jug, because his mouth was losing all moisture entirely as he imagined anything at all happening.

“You have a gun?” he asked, though he didn’t know why; something told him Mickey Milkovich probably had a hundred.

 _“What kinda question is that?”_ Mickey snorted, making Ian’s worry wane and his smile return.

“Just making sure.” Ian flopped back down onto the edge of his bed, and wondered absently if talking to Mickey before bed was going to become something he needed to do to fall asleep.

 _“You worryin’ about me, Gallagher?”_ Mickey teased, but Ian thought there was something more behind it, like it was a genuine question he was just too afraid to voice out loud without sarcasm.

Suddenly though, Ian didn’t want to tease anymore – he didn’t want to be sarcastic or joke around; he wanted to tell Mickey that yes, of course he fucking worried, and that maybe a long time ago that may have been a corny, stupid thing to say so soon after meeting; but this was no longer the world it used to be, and Ian needed Mickey to know that.

“Of course I worry, Mick,” Ian admitted then, and there was nothing sarcastic about it. “I worry that you’ll up and disappear on me and I’ll be…” Ian bit his tongue, knowing he probably sounded like a pussy to this South Side piece of trash, but apparently, Mickey had other thoughts entirely.

_“Alone?”_ Mickey finished for him, causing Ian to glance at the radio and nod his head, just like Mickey was still right there beside him.

“Yea, and I don’t wanna go back to that, not now....”

There was another long beat of silence and static, the sound whispering out into the empty room around him, and Ian wondered then just what it would be like to hear footsteps coming down that hallway again that weren’t his own – he wondered what it would be like to wake up, go down the stairs, and find someone else standing in his kitchen with a grumpy smile on their face in the morning light, and Ian thought that that might just be the most beautiful thought he had ever had.

_“Me neither,”_ Mickey’s voice came back, and it nearly broke Ian’s heart.

“Good. So let’s just agree that this is all going to work out, yea? Because I already have enough negative thoughts for a lifetime…”

Ian had never meant anything more in his entire life.

_“Agreed, Gallagher.”_

Glancing at his watch then, Ian was surprised to see they had only been speaking for a handful of minutes, but Mickey’s voice was like a lullaby, and he felt the heaviness then in his eyelids that had maybe been there for a while.

“Hey Mick?”

_“Yea?”_

“I think I’m gunna head to bed…”

_“Yea, probably a good idea, man.”_

Ian grinned against his will.

“I’ll talk to you at noon?”

_“Sure thing.”_

“Okay.”

_“Oh, Ian?”_

“Mmm?”

_“What school did you go to?”_

Ian’s brows pulled together as he stared at the walkie, but he couldn’t help the way his thumb traced the sides of it.

“Lincoln Grove.”

_“Ahh, that explains why I never heard of you.”_

Ian wondered absently if Mickey somehow knew he had been creeping through his yearbooks.

“Oh yea?”

_“Yea, I went to Douglas Park.”_

Ian’s eyes stared off into nothing; Douglas Park was a few blocks west, and not for the first time he wondered just what the fucking chances were that maybe the two people left alive were South Siders.

“You wanna visit when you get here?” Ian asked, wanting to hold on just a little while longer.

_“Fuck no! I hated that place, dropped out in tenth grade.”_

For some reason, that didn’t surprise Ian in the least.

“Alright, we’ll do something else then.” Ian didn’t realize until later that that sounded like an invitation.

_“Yea okay Gallagher, get some sleep.”_

“Sure thing, _man_ ,” Ian teased, and waited just one more second.

_“Night.”_

“Night.”

Flipping off the radio, Ian laid it gently beside his lantern before turning it off, too, snuggling himself against the sheets in the darkness as he imagined someone was still right there beside him, and for the first time in two years, not a single dream plagued Ian while he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two songs for this chapter this week:
> 
> Razor by the Foo Fighters/ for the beginning of this chapter; it really expresses Ian's state of mind.  
> (Warning, this song highly references self-harm)
> 
> This Feeling by Alabama Shakes/ for the end of the chapter; it really expresses Ian's change of mood and what speaking with Mickey does to him.


	4. Are You There, Sun?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian finds a tiny scrap of happiness in a world that continues to go mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you for your patience! December was insane as I finished Against Glass, struggled through Christmas, another lockdown, etc etc! But now that that's all done, I am hoping to have a new chapter of this story up ever 1-2 weeks!

DAY FIVE

Ian wasn’t sure how long he had been laying there in the morning light; he had awoken well after dawn – actually feeling rested and content – which was so fucking rare that he thought for a split second maybe something was wrong with him – or that he was still dreaming; that was until he had lifted himself out of bed and felt the soreness within his muscles, and winced at the ache as he had taken the barricade down off his window, letting the sunlight pour in and heal the doubtful pieces of himself.

Now, he was warming himself in the sunbeams, staring at the ceiling and the dust that floated by like birds on a breeze, replaying his conversation with Mickey over and over again in his head, the idea of actually seeing him within the next couple weeks making his insides warmer than the skin that sat in the golden rays.

“Douglas Park,” Ian said absently, to nobody at all, as he recalled the school where Mickey had apparently attended, and suddenly – like a bolt of lightning – Ian sat up, a ridiculously delayed light bulb turning on in his brain. “Holy shit!” he spat, swinging himself out of bed at once and pulling on the exact same clothes from the day before, piled haphazardly on the floor. “Douglas Park!”

How the fuck he hadn’t thought of it earlier, Ian didn’t know – maybe he had just been too exhausted and too lost in his feelings – but as he ran down the back stairs in the dark – nearly falling face-first onto the floor as he missed the bottom stair – he was just glad he had eventually thought of it at all.

Mickey had told him his age, what grade he had dropped out in, what school he had gone to, and Ian knew that inside every school library was usually a collection of yearbooks – of class photos – and if he had any say in it, today was going to be the day he _finally_ saw Mickey Milkovich.

Shoving his feet into his boots at the dining table after unceremoniously unlatching only the kitchen window barricade, Ian grabbed his Sig Sauer off the counter, slung the holster around his chest and fastened it before slipping the gun in.

Shrugging into his leather jacket, Ian flew out the back door without a second thought, the pull of that distant stranger one that he didn’t think he’d ever be able to ignore.

Not in this world.

Ian ran to the smoking shed, pulled open the door and grabbed two giant chunks of jerky before basically shoveling them both whole into his mouth and turning straight for the alley, only pausing for a brief moment to eye the burnt, charred remains of the woman from his basement in the fire pit before heading west at a steady jog.

The sooner he could get to that godforsaken school, the sooner Ian could prove that Mickey was real, and the world wasn’t as shitty as he was convinced it was.

The morning was humid and clear; the air above the pavement was already starting to undulate from the heat, making things dance in the distance as Ian headed through the streets. There was an excitement rising in his chest at the prospect of not only seeing Mickey maybe, but at having a purpose this morning that wasn’t actually essential in the least; for years, all Ian’s life had become was doing things out of necessity because he _needed_ to – he hadn’t had a choice; but now – as he headed towards Douglas Park High School – that necessity slipped away, leaving him with nothing more than a purpose that was born out of making him happy, and absolutely nothing else.

Something about that reminded him of times he thought were long forgotten.

Hopping up onto the curb, Ian cut through the baseball field, glancing absently at the dugouts that were overgrown with weeds and dandelions that were almost as tall as he was, their green stalks snaking their way between the spaces of the chain-link fence, creating a wall of leaves and yellow flowers.

There was a path that led from the field to the high school on the other side of the outfield fence, so Ian hopped it carefully, listening to it rattle and shake underneath his weight as he jumped down, startling a flock of birds that hid in the thicket of overgrowing trees.

Absently, Ian patted at his waist, ensuring for the tenth time since he’d left home that the walkie was still in place before checking his watch; it was just after ten-thirty in the morning.

In an hour and a half, he’d be talking to Mickey, and maybe – just maybe – by then, he’d have memorized the tiniest details of the face that distant voice belonged to.

Douglas Park High School was a run down, run-of-the-mill, American institution; its cream-coloured walls were bleached and dirty, turning them grey in the morning sun.

The field off towards the back was so overgrown that you wouldn’t be able to tell it had ever been a field at all if it weren’t for the rusted tops of the goal posts and bleachers that towered above the grass.

The parking lot still held a handful of cars that never had the chance to leave.

Ian strolled his way towards the building, absently peering inside the cars as he kicked the trash and leaves that sat piled and idle against the curbs, wondering absently if Mickey had ever walked this same path – if Mickey’s feet had ever landed on the exact same patch of sidewalk Ian stood on now, glancing at the glass front doors as if they held something more than nothing.

“Okay,” he sighed to himself, shading his eyes from the rising sun as he peered at the entrance, looking for any signs of life that wouldn’t be welcome as a soft breeze tickled his long strands of hair against his cheeks.

The entire front entrance was glass and was still completely intact, allowing light to seep into at least the front of the building. Ian had been inside Douglas Park a few times before – mostly for sports events or crashing school dances with Lip – but the layout now was long forgotten.

Unholstering his gun, Ian held it out in front of him, stepping towards the doors like they might blow apart at any moment, which he obviously knew they wouldn’t – it was just habit.

Thankfully, the entrance wasn’t locked; Ian pushed his way in, the unused hinges squeaking with the beginning of rust, causing the sound to echo out throughout the entire building. Luckily, the school was well-lit, with glass windows lining the walls on both floors, illuminating the shadows that would have set Ian’s teeth on edge.

Despite the silence and the sunlight, Ian still kept his gun in his hands.

There was a spiral staircase in the main hall that would have taken him up to the second floor if he’d needed to go there, but just beside it – directly across from him – was another set of already-open doors, inside which, Ian could see the endless stacks of books that told him that he’d already found the library.

Ian wanted to hope it was going to be an easy day, but the last time he’d hoped that, it had turned into anything but.

Striding into the massive room, Ian was at once hit with a smell that catapulted him backwards in time: it was the smell of books, computers, sweaty teenagers, angst, and unknown futures – it was a smell that made his eyes burn suddenly with memories, and he had to bite his tongue to keep them at bay.

“Yearbooks,” he mumbled to himself, glancing around absently, as if willing them to show themselves. “Where are the yearbooks…?”

Ian walked down the first row, eyeing the textbooks on algebra and Pythagorean theorems, trying really fucking hard to remember why he even missed high school in the first place as he looked at the numbers and foreign symbols on the front.

When he reached the end, he turned, and shuffled himself through the next aisle, smiling at the faded, vandalized cover of a chemistry book that sat silently covered in dust.

Ian spent almost half an hour like that: wandering up and down the rows of alphabetized, wooden shelves; flicking through random books; actually picking up a couple he thought he’d like to read in his spare time when there was fuck all else to do; and he absently wished that he had had the wherewithal to bring his backpack, but he’d been way too excited to think about such trivial things.

Finally – in a back corner section of the library where a circle of chairs sat in a ray of sunshine – Ian found the yearbooks, the heart within his chest hitching and tripping over itself as he laid eyes on them, so perfectly and beautifully organized by year.

Grabbing one of the chairs, Ian hauled it backwards before quickly turning it towards the shelf so he could sit and face the cracking spines, mentally calculating in his head as the gears turned.

“Mickey is gunna be twenty-six…” he whispered, counting backwards on his fingers as if this were a serious world problem he absolutely needed to fix. “It’s twenty-twenty, which means…in grade ten…no he dropped out in ten…so…nine, freshman year…yea…twenty…” Ian chewed on his lip, thinking, thinking. “Twenty…no…two-thousand-eight!”

Turning back to the bookcase at once, Ian scanned them one by one, looking towards the bottom shelf where the past decade and a half sat waiting, and when he saw the yearbook for 2008/2009, he grabbed it as if it were a fucking life vest and he was drowning.

The front cover had a picture of the school, and it was in colour. Ian stared at it for a moment, feeling his heart rate increase a bit in surprise; for some reason, he hadn’t imagined seeing Mickey in _colour_ ; it was weird maybe, but his own high school had been so broke that all their yearbooks and photographs had always been in black and white…

Hesitating one more second, Ian took a breath to calm his nerves before shoving his finger between two random pages and opening it; he was greeted by rows upon rows of coloured images – smiling faces looking up at him in a saturated collage – and his heart nearly stopped altogether.

“Fuck,” he sighed, the word coming out too quiet as he grazed his hand over the page, looking at all the faces of people who were probably no longer alive, and swallowed loudly in the silence.

Flipping to the front before he had a full-on meltdown, Ian found the glossary, and dragged his finger down the rows of words until he hit the _Grade 9_ section – the freshman section.

Ian’s breath was trembling as it escaped his lips and his hands were shaking a bit; at first, Ian assumed it was because of the nervous excitement he felt at nothing more than the prospect of finally laying eyes on _him_ ; but the more he sat on it – the more he considered – the more Ian realized that it was actually because of the fear that was slowly beginning to override everything else; the fear that Mickey wouldn’t even be there at all, and that somehow, that would only be a confirmation of his worst nightmare:

that Mickey was all in his head.

Flipping page by page, Ian finally reached Mickey’s grade, and had never been more thankful for something as mundane as alphabetical order in his entire life.

The first two pages was all A-C, so he breathed, and he breathed, scanning the faces absently, doing nothing more than biding his time as he hoped, and maybe even prayed.

He flipped to the next page, C-F.

Then the next, F-H.

Then the next, I-L.

Then Ian stopped. He was nervous – he was fucking terrified, actually – and he laughed a little at himself there amongst the books that watched him silently, wondering absently just what words they would take from themselves to make him feel better if they could speak.

“I swear to God, Mickey,” Ian whispered, swallowing those errant emotions one final time as he grabbed the bottom corner of the page and slid it so goddamn slowly that the names on the next came gradually into view one by one, like molasses dripping its way up the paper.

Suddenly, like a shot to the chest, there it was, and Ian’s lungs stopped working. It was just a name, but a name that meant everything: _Mickey Milkovich_.

As soon as those stark, black letters came into view, Ian held the page in place, only allowing the smallest, almost-imperceptible corner of Mickey’s picture to peak out above his name.

He was about to see Mickey; for the first time in years, Ian was about to put a face to a voice that wasn’t his own – the face of someone who was real.

Someone who was fucking _real_.

Tears started streaming down Ian’s face as a relief washed through his bones that made him feel like he was floating on air, and with one final breath, he flipped the page entirely, finally laying eyes on the man who was saving him.

Ian was glad he took that last breath, because any others he would have had were stolen from his chest entirely. Mickey was looking back at him with eyes that were so blue they made the colour of everything else around him disappear, as if Mickey had come to life completely saturated in a black and white world.

A smile pulled up the corner of Ian’s mouth when he realized that Mickey wasn’t actually smiling at all; in fact, Mickey looked annoyed, his pale face staring out at Ian as if Ian were the most annoying motherfucker Mickey had ever seen, and Ian actually laughed then, another tear streaking down his face that he quickly wiped away.

Reaching that same hand out, Ian traced the edge of the photograph. Mickey’s skin was alabaster, but there was a bruise around his eye, and dirt on his face, which somehow only made him seem more vulnerable than it did tough.

Fuck, Ian wished he could have seen him back then – wished he could have caught a glimpse of Mickey as he walked down the street and seen just what type of kid he had been for himself.

“Hell of a combination,” Ian mumbled, his eyes finally landing on Mickey’s spiky, jet-black hair; matched with the pale skin, it made everything about Mickey seem like a contradiction, especially when Ian took in the crystal clear eyes and the dirty face.

Errantly, Ian thought that Mickey was the most beautiful teenager he had ever seen, and despite the thought maybe being weird now that he was twenty-four, Ian didn’t altogether mind, because he tried to take those features then and mould them into a man – a man in Minneapolis who waited by the speaker twice a day for a red-headed stranger to tell him things, just to keep them both alive.

Without hesitation, Ian grabbed a hold of the page and tore it carefully, creating a perfect square around Mickey until he broke free of the paper, and broke free of the past. Holding it gently between his fingers, Ian gazed at those blue eyes one final time before tucking the picture carefully into his inner jacket pocket beside his gun, grabbing his books from off the table, and heading back out into the sun.

~

Leaning up against the chain-link fence of the dugouts from where he sat in the grass, Ian shrugged his jacket off and folded it neatly on top of the tiny stack of books beside him, ever aware of the treasure it now held. Closing his eyes to the sun, he tugged the walkie off of his hip and flicked it on before glancing at his watch; it was just coming up on noon, and if he were going to speak to Mickey anywhere today, for some reason, out in the sun seemed like the place to do it.

Ian was fully aware of how ridiculous it all was – the picture, the anticipation, the _feelings_ ; but he was also aware that it was now the only thing he really looked forward to, and despite everything going on in the world, that was something, wasn’t it?

Maybe Mickey would be the thing that could put him all the way back together.

Maybe Mickey would be the thing that cast out his darkness more than the sun.

Maybe Mickey would be the thing to make him feel like life was no longer just a struggle, but something that had moments of easiness, too, like Ian could wake up every morning unafraid of what was to come because he knew beyond a doubt that he was no longer alone.

Whether Mickey did that as just a friend, or as family eventually, or whatever, Ian didn’t think he altogether minded, as long as Mickey was just…there.

_“Gallagher?”_ Mickey’s voice came through the speaker then - as if he knew Ian’s thoughts - his gravely cadence drifting out across the ball diamond, making Ian smile.

“Hey you,” he said, way too fucking soft and eager…

_Idiot._

There was a beat of silence before Mickey came back again, but if he had perceived Ian’s affection, well, he didn’t show it.

_“How’s it goin’, man?”_

Ian chewed on his lip, debating.

_Should I tell him?_

_No, definitely not._

_Then again…_

“Oh it’s goin’!” Ian replied instead, reaching absently out to untuck Mickey’s picture from his jacket pocket.

_“Oh yea? Anything exciting?”_ Hearing Mickey’s voice then while looking at his face at the same time did something to Ian internally – something irrevocable that shifted the heart inside him, making him braver than he thought he was.

“If I tell you, you’re going to think I’m either fucked up, crazy, or weird,” Ian admitted, knowing full-well he was all of those things, but keeping Mickey in the dark about that was basically his only priority right now.

That perfect, gruff laugh escaped the slats then, and Ian felt those butterflies flap in his chest.

_“Okay well now you have to tell me.”_

“But do I really though?”

_“Fuck yes.”_

“I mean it would probably be less awkward if I didn’t…”

Another beat of silence.

_“Jesus, what did you do Gallagher, find a porn stash or somethin’!?”_ Mickey teased, but fuck, Ian may as well have; he felt his cheeks flush and his palms start to sweat.

_Fuck_ , he thought, his mind stumbling over itself. _Christ, just chill out and be funny._

He could work with funny.

“Oh, yea, you could _definitely_ say that,” Ian teased back, pulling Mickey’s photograph closer to his face.

_“Really?”_ Mickey snorted, sounding actually the smallest bit impressed, but there was also a huskiness to his voice that Ian wondered at, like maybe he was a bit aroused by the idea…

_Fuck fuck fuck._

“Well, I went to Douglas Park…” Ian admitted reluctantly, and let the words hang there in the silence – let the words hang there so Mickey could take them in, swallow them whole, and try to figure out what exactly they meant.

The silence went on for ten seconds, then twenty, and fuck fuck fuck, Ian felt the embarrassment start to creep over his walls, and he was about to tell Mickey that it had just been a spur of the moment thing because he was just curious, when Mickey’s voice came back through.

_“And?”_ he said simply, breathily, like it was a question with a million meanings, but Ian was just too dumbstruck to decipher any of them.

“And what?”

_“Did you find what you were looking for?”_

Ian felt his Adam’s apple bob – felt the sweat on his forehead as the sun beat down on him from above.

“Yea, I did. You were umm…” he trailed off. Fuck.

_“A mess?”_ Mickey offered, another soft laugh escaping into the birdsong around him, but it was too quiet – too vulnerable. He was worried about what Ian thought of him, Ian could tell.

Inhaling an audible breath, Ian scrunched his face up, closed his eyes, bit his lips, and went for it.

“I was gunna say cute.” Fuck, what a stupid word to use.

_“Fuuck off!”_ Mickey exclaimed, but didn’t sound the least bit affronted; Ian thought maybe he sounded like he was blushing.

Ian also wished more than anything that he could see that…

“Like,” he continued, sinking himself lower against the chain-link. “Thee most adorable thing I have ever seen…” It was entirely sarcastic; at least, Ian made it come off that way.

_“Oh yea?”_ Mickey snorted, letting the static fill the air for a moment. _“Which part did it for ya? Was it the dirt? Or maybe the bruises, if I had any…”_

The way he admitted those things – the fact that he clearly looked at those things as flaws or faults – made Ian’s heart ache a little. Back then, Ian had had dirt on his clothes, too, and he’d definitely had bruises every now and then; in fact, he still did now...

Fuck, maybe their pasts had just been preparing them for this future.

“Your eyes,” Ian said then, cursing himself before the words were even out. “They’re uhh…”

_Fuck, just dig your grave here, Ian._

 _“They’re what?”_ Mickey sounded way too fucking amused, like he knew Ian was drowning.

“Dick,” Ian huffed, but smiled in the mid-day breeze that picked up from somewhere off Lake Michigan. “Blue,” he said finally, and it was really the only thing he could come up with. “They’re blue.”

That comfortable silence came back then, creating a quiet bubble of calm around Ian as he sat in the long, green grass of that baseball field.

Setting the picture of Mickey gently onto his lap, Ian closed his eyes to the sun and leaned his head back, the thumb of one hand tracing the edges of the walkie against his chest as the fingers of the other brushed carelessly back and forth through the blooming dandelions beside him.

_“Jesus you’re soft,”_ Mickey’s voice came through finally, and it was so delayed that Ian had almost – _almost_ – forgotten he was still there at the other end.

Ian smiled to himself, raising the radio to his mouth without even bothering to open his eyes.

“You think?”

_“Well I had a real fuckin’ inkling,”_ Mickey snorted, and the big word sounded hilarious coming from his shit-talking mouth. _“But now I know fer sure.”_

“Oh, you know _fer sure_ do ya?” Ian mocked, sounding like a complete idiot.

_“Shut up.”_

“You know, I don’t have to put up with this attitude of yours.” Ian was smiling so goddamn hard.

_“Well, feel free to leave any time…”_

“Don’t tempt me…”

Fuck, leaving was the last thing Ian ever wanted to do, which was weird, because before Mickey, all Ian had ever really done was think about different ways to leave this life altogether…

_“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”_ Mickey was smiling, too, Ian knew it.

“I’m in the middle of a baseball field, there are no doors…”

_“No fuckin’ way! You at the ball park by Douglas?”_

For some reason that brought Ian up short; quite fucking obviously Ian knew Mickey was from South Side, but there was something about him openly talking about the exact spot Ian was at now – how his voice went a little higher like it was a place he maybe had fond memories of – that made Ian’s heart dance.

How had they never crossed paths before?

“Yea, actually!” Ian sunk even lower against the fence, letting a leg come up to rest on his other knee, and he was almost tempted to shove a piece of grass between his teeth. “Just hangin’ out in the sun for a bit.”

_“Lazy fucker.”_

Ian snorted, felt his cheeks flush.

“Fuck off!”

_“Well damn, Gallagher! Listen to that potty mouth! I must be rubbin’ off on ya…”_

Ian’s cheeks flushed even further.

“Must be…”

There was another beat of silence, and Ian had never wished he could see someone more in his entire life.

_“I used to hang out in the dugouts,”_ Mickey admitted then, masterfully changing the subject, and Ian was thankful.

Turning his head, Ian glanced back through the thick weeds behind him that snaked their way up the chain-link, which was the only thing blocking him from the very dugouts Mickey was referring to.

With a flutter in his chest, Ian reached a hand out, gently tracing his fingers along the curve of linked metal, imagining Mickey there once upon a time.

“I’m leaning up against the fence in front of the dugouts right now, actually,” he confessed, and it was soft, thoughtful.

_“Yea?”_

“Mhmm.” Ian turned back, watching the bugs dance in the humid haze like sparks before closing his eyes to the sun once more and shoving Mickey’s photo into the front pocket of his jeans, the breeze picking up to the point that Ian worried Mickey’s picture may float away. “It’s a bit overgrown but, it’s still the same.”

_“I used to sneak out at night and go there,”_ Mickey admitted then, his own voice becoming quiet at the distant memories. _“Would steal my dad’s cigarettes and go sit in the dugouts, just to smoke and think and shit…”_

Absently, Ian realized that listening to Mickey made his body sink into the earth – made his bones want to return from the place whence they came, like just the sound of Mickey was soothing him into an eternal rest that held no darkness, and no shadows.

Only peace.

“What would you think about?” Ian asked, though he didn’t really need to; he thought he already knew.

Fuck, _of course_ he already knew; they were two gay kids in South Side, what else was there to think about?

_“Just…stuff.”_ Mickey sounded hesitant, and the corner of Ian’s mouth pulled up. _“You know.”_

Ian laughed.

“Yea Mick, I know.”

_Ian!_ A voice called suddenly, and Ian’s eyes flew open at once, his heart hammering in his chest at the sound of Lip’s cadence drifting in on the breeze.

Sitting up, Ian dropped the walkie into the grass, his eyes scanning the field as if expecting to find his brother standing there, and his heart nearly fucking stopped entirely when he did. Lip was standing on the other side of the fence across the field, a smile on his face as he gripped the chain with his left hand, a smoke dangling carelessly in his right.

_“Never doubted it,”_ Mickey said then, so carefree in the quiet while Ian began to fall apart. _“So, any exciting plans for the rest of the day?”_

Ian couldn’t take his eyes off his brother; he knew he wasn’t real, but he was still there, staring at Ian as if willing him to get up and come towards him – like if he just acknowledged his presence, somehow, he could bring him back to life.

“No no no,” Ian huffed – his breath starting to hitch in his throat as his body went cold despite the heat – and he pinched his eyes shut, shaking his head back and forth harshly as he tried to expel the shadows that were trying to block out his sun.

_“Hey, Ian, you still there?”_ his sun asked – voice slightly tinged with worry – and not for the first time, Ian held onto the sound, reaching blindly out and pawing at the overgrown lawn until he felt the radio under his palm and pulled it up to his mouth.

“Yea, I’m here.” Ian’s words were stuttered – he could feel them trembling – but he couldn’t help it.

_“Hey, you okay?”_

_No, Mickey, I’m fucked, remember?_

“Yea I uhh, I just…” Ian reopened his eyes, staring at the ground between his knees and pressing his free hand to his tightening chest for a moment before slowly, slowly, refocusing his gaze towards the fence along the outfield.

Lip was gone, but now, in his place, was a person – there was an actual fucking person standing there at the fence, and Ian felt his entire mouth go dry as his heart began to beat faster, faster, sending a crashing wave of blood into his ears.

_“What’s going on, Ian?”_ Mickey asked, and this time his voice was firm, hard, unwavering – it was more authoritative than Ian had ever heard it.

Ian had no choice but to answer that tone, like he couldn’t ever disobey that version of Mickey that came out of nowhere and set his soul into motion.

“There’s a person…” he whispered, unable to take his eyes off the stranger. They were standing at the fence, left hand intertwined in the chain-link, just like Lip’s had been.

_“Wait, what?”_ Mickey sounded frantic now. _“Like, a person person?”_

From his place in the grass, Ian sat forward, peering carefully through the afternoon sun as his heart hammered against his ribcage. The person wasn’t looking at him, they were just standing completely immobile in the flickering shade of an oak tree, staring off into the sky as if hypnotized by the sun…

“Holy fuck,” Ian huffed at once in realization, scrambling to his feet as he pushed himself so hard back against the fence that it rattled under his weight, and the person turned at the sound, their movements much slower than they normally would have been in the dark. “Mickey,” Ian whispered, pressing the button down hard as his other hand reached automatically for the gun holstered to his chest. “Mickey, it’s one of Them…”

That was impossible; it was the middle of the fucking day…

_“What!? No, Ian, it can’t be…”_

“Mickey, I’m telling you, there’s one standing at the fence.” Ian’s voice was sure, because _he_ was sure; he wasn’t hallucinating, not anymore.

Unholstering his gun once more, Ian stepped away from the dugouts, slowly making his way across the field towards the _Thing_ in the sun.

The closer he got, the more Ian knew he was right; It’s eyes were completely clouded with blindness, and It was so fucking slow and lethargic from being out in the daylight that It may as well have been completely dead already.

It should have been – It _should_ have been dead already.

_“Ian?”_ Mickey came back through, and the _Thing_ turned its head towards the sound, a noise escaping It’s throat that was too quiet and too weak. _“Ian, what the fuck is going on?”_

“Just hang on a sec…” Ian’s palms were sweating against the gun and against the walkie, and he almost found it amusing that he no longer knew which of the two objects he took more comfort in.

_“Nah fuck that man, you can’t keep telling me to just hang on…”_ Apparently, Mickey seriously wasn’t fooling around anymore, and something about that made Ian’s breath and his heart slow at the same time – made his mind start to work a little more coherently as he approached the fence, like Mickey was something solid amongst his chaos.

“You worryin’ about me, Milkovich?” Ian teased, trying to calm both of them as he remembered Mickey’s exact words from the night before.

There wasn’t even a second of silence.

_“Yea, man, actually I am.”_

“You’re so fucking soft,” Ian said, and despite the Thing he was now standing face-to-face with – the fence the only object between them – Ian fucking smiled.

Unlike the Thing that had been in his basement, this one was a man; the grey skin of his arms that showed beneath the short sleeves of his golf shirt was extra transparent in the sunlight, and his black veins were way more prominent than they should have been, like the sun itself was trying to suck them out from his flesh. That’s usually what happens when one of Them comes out into the sun: They become lethargic, then immobile, then They die within a matter of minutes; but not this one – this one was holding on, literally.

It’s fingers were wrapped tightly through the fence, purple nails cracked and peeling off; It’s head was swiveling from side to side, It’s short hair shifting as It tried absently to focus on one of the thousand sounds that echoed out around the two of them: birdsong, leaves in the breeze, trash scraping against the pavement, Ian’s breathing…

_“Shut up and just tell me what the fuck is going on,”_ Mickey huffed then, and They turned towards Ian again at the sound of Mickey’s voice – like It was just as enthralled by that cadence as Ian was.

It’s white eyes were only inches from Ian’s face, staring at him through the chain-link like it could actually see him.

_What the fuck_.

“I’m standing in front of one of Them,” Ian admitted, and the loudness of his voice didn’t cause a reaction like it would have if it had been night. “It’s just staring at me through the fence, like…like the sun has fucked it up but, hasn’t actually killed it…”

There was a long, steady hiss of static, and Ian knew they were both thinking, thinking.

_What the actual fuck…_

 _“You’re sure it’s a Ghost?”_ Mickey asked then, and Ian felt his brows furrow – felt himself swallow at that term.

“A Ghost?”

_“Fuck man, whatever, that’s what I call Them, just…you’re sure it’s one of…Them?”_

Ian stared back at the Thing, his breathing returning to normal as he took in the bald patches, the stench, the loss of anything remotely human…

“Yea Mickey, it’s a Ghost.” 

_“Kill it,”_ Mickey said at once, and there was no hesitation in his voice, just that same authoritative hardness that Ian couldn’t ignore. _“Just fucking kill it.”_

Ian raised his gun without a thought, shoved the muzzle through the fence against It’s forehead, and pulled the trigger, the blast echoing out into the empty sky, causing that same flock of birds from earlier to panic up into the blue.

It’s body hit the ground with a rather soft thud, and for only a second did Ian consider taking It back home to burn It, but for some reason, he didn’t think _this_ one seemed worth the effort; so he would leave it for the dogs.

“It’s done,” he choked into the walkie then, wiping the sweat from his eyes as he turned back for his tiny pile of things by the dugouts, his mind tripping over itself as he tried to figure out what the Hell had just happened.

_“You alright?”_ Mickey’s voice was soft now – concerned, caring – and Ian felt his eyes sting with emotion.

This fucking guy was doing more things to Ian than the outside world was.

“Yea, Mick. I’m fine, I just…” Ian trailed off, grabbing his jacket up from off the ground and shrugging into it before reholstering his gun and snatching up his books, sparing one final look at the crumpled body on the other side of the field before heading for home. “Why was it out in the sun?”

Tasting blood, Ian realized absently he had been chewing his lip for a good long while now.

_“I don’t know.”_ Mickey sounded almost as unsure and scared as Ian felt. “ _I’ve never seen one alive out in the daylight.”_

“Do you think…” Ian stopped again, a tiny weight lifting off his shoulders when his tiny home came into view. “Do you think the virus is mutating?”

Since the beginning of the end, that had always been Ian’s biggest fear: that one day, the dark would no longer be enough, and They’d come for him in the sun.

_“Fuck,”_ Mickey huffed, and Ian tried to imagine him rubbing a calloused hand over his blue eyes, or grabbing a fistful of black hair in frustration. _“I dunno but, if it is, then I need to get to Chicago sooner rather than later.”_

Ian stopped dead in the street, the errant thought of Mickey in the middle of the night – in the middle of the day – completely alone in an empty space with nowhere to hide running abruptly and unwelcome through his mind…

Suddenly, there was a question on the tip of Ian’s tongue – a question that had been there for a few days – and he wanted more than anything to ask it, but he was just way too fucking afraid to know the answer.

“So whatta you wanna do?” Ian asked instead, his eyes gazing up and down the street now as if searching for danger, which is something he’d never had to do before – not while the sun was out.

 _“I need to do a run into the city, and I need to get some other stuff like I said…”_ Mickey trailed off, and Ian pushed forward, strolling through the front gate and down the pathway beside his house towards the chicken coop. _“I wanted to leave by the end of the week but, maybe it’s best if I come sooner…”_

Ian liked that idea – fuck, he _really_ liked that idea – and it wasn’t just because Mickey would be there, it was also because he wouldn’t have to face whatever was coming next by himself.

Stepping up onto the back porch, Ian slunk himself down into the chair there, sliding Mickey’s photograph out once more and setting it up on the tiny shelf he had built to hold his plates.

“Okay well, take the day and think it through, and then we’ll talk at nine tonight, as usual?” Ian didn’t hide the hopefulness in his voice, it was impossible with everything that was happening inside his head.

 _“Of course,”_ Mickey exclaimed, like that was the stupidest question Ian could have asked.

Despite everything, Ian smiled shyly, like Mickey was actually there watching him as he toyed with the hem of his t-shirt.

“Okay well, I guess I’ll talk to you then…”

_“Sure thing, Gallagher…”_

With that, the static cut out, and Ian could do nothing more than stare off towards the back alley for what seemed like hours.

~

It always freaked him out, being back inside a store that hadn’t seen another living soul in God knows how long. Ian pushed open the front door of the Old Navy a few blocks away from the house, eyes scanning over the perfectly folded jeans, shirts, and sweaters that sat on the shelves and white tables, a fine layer of dust covering them like darkened snow.

Briefly, Ian scanned the shadows towards the back, trying his best to expel the thought of the Thing that had stood in the sun earlier the day, his mind telling him on a continuous loop that it was just a fluke – that It would have died eventually, whether Ian had shown up or not. There had been no fight left in It; It had only stared at nothing, shifting It’s head as if It could hear but could honestly do nothing more than that.

For now, that knowledge was giving Ian comfort.

All the jeans in Ian’s size were already gone, he’d made sure of that over the past few years; it was surprising just how fast he could work through a pair nowadays, considering they used to last him years, but that was because all he used to do was walk to and from school in them, hang out in them, and go to work in them. Now, he did _everything_ in his jeans: go on runs; hunt; do manual labor; garden; do repairs; smoke meat; kill people; burn bodies; etcetera, etcetera, etcetera…

But none of that mattered right now, because Ian wasn’t here for himself.

Walking over to one of the shelves, Ian barely gave it a second thought as he grabbed the first smaller pair of jeans he could find before turning abruptly towards the table full of colourful shirts. Eyeing the plaid button downs, Ian trailed an absent finger over them with a grin – remembering a time when he used to be interested in such nice looking things and how they’d fit – before heading over to the thicker flannels that hung on a rack and grabbing the first one that looked sturdy enough to withstand the weather.

“Good enough,” he huffed – glancing at the soft, red wool between his fingers – figuring a scarecrow wouldn’t really give a flying fuck what it was wearing…

Before he reached the door, he stuck his hand out and took one of the random bottles of cologne on display by the cash register, also figuring that a few spurts and an unfamiliar smell would only help his cause of keeping the goddamn deer away.

An hour later Ian was on his back porch, haphazardly sewing the open ends of the jeans shut; he remembered Mickey had said sewing was something he had become surprisingly good at, and Ian was a bit annoyed he hadn’t been that lucky; he’d stabbed himself with the needle at least ten times, and despite how frustrating it was, it still didn’t stop him from wondering what other surprises Mickey Milkovich had up his sleeves.

When he was done with the jeans, Ian grabbed up the flannel, ensuring it was buttoned all the way before sewing up the ends of the cuffs.

“Fuckin’ ridiculous,” he chuckled – to nobody in particular – as he pictured himself sitting completely alone in a world gone silent, making a fucking scarecrow for his brother’s garden like some weird, fucked-up hermit.

Somehow, the thought only made Ian smile more, which suddenly only made him remember the smile that had been on his brother’s face as he’d stared at him from the far side of the chain-link fence.

“Hey Lip,” he said then – the words coming out before he had a chance to stop them – but at least this time Ian knew he was talking to nothing – this time, Ian welcomed it, his fingers working as expertly as they could in the afternoon sun, causing the needle to shift its way in and out of the fabric, in and out, lulling Ian into a sense of peace.

_Hey douchebag,_ Lip replied, and the sound was like music in Ian’s mind.

“You scared the shit outta me, man, fuck.”

_Sorry, had to get your attention though._

“Oh and there weren’t easier ways to do that than show up outta the blue? Asshole.”

The sound of Lip’s laugh filled his head.

_Yea well, you were too busy swooning like a bitch._

“Oh fuck off!”

_You tellin’ me that wasn’t full on swooning in that field!?_

Ian hesitated, feeling a smile tug at his lips.

“No…”

_Uh-huh. So is that a picture in your pocket or are you just happy to hear me?_

Ian actually laughed in the silence.

“Yea alright, fuck off.” Reaching into his pocket, Ian pulled the picture of Mickey back out and returned it to its place on the shelf.

_I can’t believe you took it with you on a scarecrow run…_

“Seriously man, shut up,” Ian huffed, glancing at Mickey’s blue eyes staring out at him from the paper. “At least he’s…” Ian stopped, suddenly feeling bad for saying what he was about to, even though Lip was long past the point of caring.

_He’s what? He’s **here**?_

Ian chewed his lip, his smile fading.

“Yea.”

_Fair enough. I’m glad he’s here and not…_

“Dead?” Ian snorted, but hated the word on his tongue.

_Yea._

“Yea.”

There was a long silence then, but unlike the silences with Mickey, this one wasn’t comfortable, and Ian almost hated himself for having an entire conversation in his head with someone he’d never actually speak to again.

For some reason, he thought it maybe made him weaker than he already was.

_You’re not weak_ , Lip cut in suddenly, and of course he did: he could read Ian’s thoughts, because he _was_ Ian’s thoughts.

“I know.” Ian swallowed, tying off the thread with slightly shaky fingers.

_I mean it, Ian. When have I ever let you down?_

Gazing out over the garden then, Ian was suddenly back in that darkened stairwell, his eyes watching as Lip stood up from his place on the steps, holding his bruised ribs and wanting nothing more than to get Ian home to clean out his bite wound…

“Never,” Ian confessed, feeling the guilt and the tears stinging the corners of his eyes before wiping them harshly away with the back of his hand. “You’ve never let me down.”

~

Cotton worked way better than hay; besides, where the fuck was Ian going to find hay in South Side anyways?

There was a massive pile of empty, torn apart pillow cases and cushion covers in the fire pit, their former filling now stuffed inside a nice-smelling scarecrow that was stuck to a couple of old hockey sticks in the garden.

It was the most Gallagher-esque thing Ian had ever seen.

The houses all down the block had been cleared by Lip and himself years ago, but that didn’t mean there still wasn’t a pang that shattered Ian’s heart as he had gone into them one by one once more, tearing their beds and couches apart to get what he was looking for.

Ian had avoided Kev and V’s house entirely.

“Not bad,” he hummed to himself in approval as he stared at his Frankenstein creation, the slight breeze wafting the scent of cologne in his direction as it cooled the sweat patches of his t-shirt.

Ian smiled into the wind, wondering abruptly just what it was Mickey smelled like…

Ian hoped he didn’t smell like the scarecrow…

Ian hoped he smelled like sweat, dirt, and survival…

As if his brain had suddenly been re-hardwired to his dick, that very idea made Ian’s blood rush and his thighs tingle in a way he hadn’t known for a long, long time, the faint smell of his own salt and skin making everything way more real than it should have been,

“Well shit,” he breathed, at once needing nothing more than to get his hands on himself and feel something real.

Striding purposefully back towards the house with an increasing erection, Ian strolled straight past the picture of Mickey and into the dining room, falling down on one of the chairs at the table before closing his eyes and leaning his head back at the increasing pressure that was sending electricity into his nerves, awakening him from a long, seemingly endless sleep.

A part of him wanted to look at the picture, only so he could have something tangible that said Mickey was real, and so were the things he was feeling; but a part of him also felt like it was way too fucking weird, considering how young Mickey was in it.

Exhaling a shaky breath, Ian set his jaw in determination and snaked his hand down to the front of his jeans, expertly undoing the zipper as the image of his dark-haired stranger came back into his mind at once; this time however, the man had blue eyes and a sharp nose, with even darker hair and the hint of dirt on his cheeks above a stubbled, angled jaw…

“Fuck,” Ian whimpered, grabbing hold of himself there in the quiet of the kitchen, a perfect picture in his head as he imagined Mickey’s hands on him instead – strong hands that were even more worn down from a life of fighting and stealing and surviving than his own were. “Oh fuck, fuck…”

Stroking the bloom of precum that was forming in his slit down over his head – along his veins to his red hair and back again – Ian felt himself tighten instinctively, the release of orgasm already so close at hand as his stomach tensed and a warmth radiated out from his pelvis into every cell of his being.

The slight sound of wetness as he stroked himself was almost obscene to his ears in the empty house that was all he knew, but he pushed it away from his thoughts, focusing instead on all the images his mind could conjure up – the good images this time, and not the bad.

_Fuck, Gallagher…_ Mickey’s voice echoed suddenly – so gone with need that it was almost foreign – and Ian heard the moan that escaped his own chest at the sound.

“Fuck, Mickey,” he trembled in reply – the name falling from his lips before he even knew what was happening – and his eyes squeezed further shut as his speed increased, seeing nothing behind his lids but blue eyes staring up at him from between his thighs.

_Cum for me…_

“Oh God…fuck…”

With a final tug and a squeeze of pressure, Ian obeyed Mickey’s request and came, and even though he was sure no more than a minute or two had passed, it racked him entirely: his boots scraping hard against the floor as they jutted outwards and trembled; his hand gripping himself so perfectly that he swore for just a minute that the hand wasn’t actually his own; his eyelids gnashing together ruthlessly, causing him to see dirty, bruised, blue stars in a black, alabaster sky…

~

Flopping down into bed, Ian switched his lantern on, eyeing the barricade over his window to ensure it was properly in place before finally relaxing back into his pillows, nothing but his boxers between his skin and the cooling night air.

Grabbing the walkie from off the table, Ian slid in a new pair of batteries before flipping it on, letting the quiet static hiss out around him as he propped the tiny, old, portable DVD player from the living room in his lap and flicked it on, too, the screen slowly coming to life in a grainy fuzz before he pressed _play_ from the home menu.

Only about ten minutes of his movie had actually passed before Mickey’s voice came through the slats beside him, making Ian’s heart jump even more than he did.

_“Yo Gallagher!”_ he sang, his voice unusually happy on the other end. _“You still alive?”_

Ian snorted despite the heat flushing into his cheeks as he recalled the last time he had heard Mickey call him _Gallagher_ : in his head that afternoon while he’d jerked himself off...

Despite it, Ian smiled at the screen ahead of him, absently reaching out to turn the volume down on the DVD player so there wouldn’t be too much interference.

“Barely,” he joked dramatically, as if just saying the word was a struggle. “I did _so_ much work today, I’m surprised I’m still functioning honestly.” It was nothing but sarcasm.

Mickey laughed quietly from the other end.

_“Oh yea? What’d you do?”_

Ian shoved a handful of homemade chips into his mouth, eternally thankful for bulk oil, potatoes, salt, and fire.

“I made a scarecrow,” Ian mumbled proudly, crumbs falling off onto his bare chest between words, and he knew Mickey would probably laugh at how gross he looked there in his boxers, covered in grease.

_“No shit!?”_

“No shit.”

_“You spend the afternoon talkin’ to it, Snow White? Or do you reserve your words for real animals?”_

The smile on Ian’s face was so wide he felt it in his ears.

“Only animals; I mean fuck, I’m talkin’ to you aren’t I!?”

There was a beat of silence, which only made Ian laugh into the static, barely watching the movie in front of him anymore as a building blew up on the screen, sending a cascade of dust out around it.

_“Wow,”_ Mickey breathed, his voice even and completely unimpressed. _“Just, wow. Does your brain hurt after hitting me with a comeback like that?”_

Ian could do this all night.

“My brain always hurts when I talk to you,” he teased again, and it took everything he had not to shove his face into his pillow like a teenage girl; so instead, he shoveled another handful of his personal crack into his gob.

_“I’m leaving,”_ Mickey huffed, and another laugh escaped Ian’s chest then that was so loud and jovial that it caused the DVD player to fall off his lap and land sideways on the mattress.

“You’re so sensitive!”

_“Oh fuck off!”_

“You were about to!”

_“I was not!”_

“Oh just empty threats then?”

_“Do you ever shut up?”_

Ian sat further up against the headboard, the smile on his face never once wavering as he repositioned his DVD player and bowl of chips.

Once he was more comfortable however, he thought suddenly about talking to Lip on the back porch – about talking to Fiona in the chicken coop…

“No,” Ian admitted then as if on impulse – as if he wanted to be truthful – and it was suddenly a lot sadder than he meant it to be. “I guess I never do shut up, actually.”

Static whispered out around him for a minute then, and he tried to focus back on the screen.

_“So whatta you doin’?”_ Mickey asked finally, changing the subject completely, and Ian wondered if it was because he was simply bored with their teasing, or if he had heard Ian’s tone change.

“Watchin’ a movie.”

_“What! You have a DVD player!?”_ Mickey sounded like a kid suddenly, jealous of the shiny toy he couldn’t have.

It caused Ian to find his smile again.

“Yea, an old piece of shit we actually had before all this crap happened. Battery powered.”

_“Man, I looked **everywhere** for one,” _Mickey sighed, sounding truly fucking sad about the whole thing. _“All I could find were rechargeable ones that needed electricity though. I could’ve hooked ‘em up to the car batteries but, it’s just a waste, I’d rather use those for shit that actually matters.”_

Stopping mid-bite, Ian glanced at the walkie again as if it were Mickey himself, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Car batteries?” he asked randomly, trying to figure out just what the fuck Mickey would need car batteries for.

_“Yea. I wire ‘em to shit. Lights, heaters, fans, whatever.”_ Mickey said this like it was the most logical thing in the world, and Ian was just an idiot.

“Fuck, did you just teach yourself to rewire shit?” he asked – rather impressed by the South Side stranger on the other end of the line – and grinned for the millionth time that night, glad at having discovered yet another hidden talent Mickey Milkovich had up his sleeve.

_“Kinda.”_ Mickey’s voice was soft and shy, as if he didn’t want to talk about himself, and Ian could imagine him rubbing at the back of his neck, like maybe it was a nervous tick. _“Used to hot-wire cars all the time and fool around with the stereos, too; once the world ended, I dunno, I just kinda tried with other stuff I guess…”_

“Well shit,” Ian huffed, seriously fucking envious. “I have a fan in the basement, maybe when you get here you can hook it up for me. It’s gunna be hot as balls soon.”

Mickey snorted, his gruff laugh lighting a match inside Ian’s chest – making his heart beat faster – and Ian tried his best once more not to remember what he had done earlier in the kitchen while he imagined Mickey’s hands on him…

_“Sure,”_ Mickey agreed finally, and that spark grew into a fucking flame at the confirmation that Mickey was still coming, even though he had never said otherwise. _“I can charge your cell phone too, if you want,”_ he added absently, catching Ian completely off guard. _“I mean, not that you can use it but, I dunno, I look at old pictures and shit sometimes…”_

The tightening in Ian’s chest came back tenfold then and he sat up at once, the DVD player flopping off onto the sheets yet again as a cold sweat broke out on Ian’s forehead.

Glancing towards his bedside table, Ian slowly pulled open the drawer and shoved aside the old, expired chocolate bars that sat on top, revealing his white iPhone in a black rubber case. Ian stared at it as if it would hurt him should he actually touch it, but he reached out anyways, slowly taking it up in his hand before twirling it over in the half-light, the silver edges sparkling in the glow from the lantern.

In the beginning, electricity had continued to buzz through the wires for about a year, until there were no longer enough people to keep it up and running.

In the beginning, Ian had spent countless hours taking videos and photographs of book pages and tutorials as he and Lip tried to take in whatever information they could and build a life they could survive in.

In his phone, Ian knew there were videos of Lip reading horticulture books as Ian made fun of him for being such a nerd. In his phone, Ian knew there were a few pictures of Fiona and Debbie in the kitchen, making one final family dinner after the televisions had cut off. In his phone, Ian knew there were years and year’s worth of images and videos of his family that he never thought he’d be able to see again.

The moment his cell phone had finally died was a moment Ian didn’t think he’d ever forget; he had sat on the green couch downstairs, staring at his wallpaper – a picture of he and his siblings on the front porch – until the screen had gone black, and he and Lip were completely on their own.

_“You still there?”_ Mickey said suddenly, but his voice didn’t sound worried like last time; instead, it was calm and collected – patient – like he knew that Ian _was_ still there, and something had simply gotten to him.

Ian thought that maybe Mickey was starting to figure out that there was something inherently wrong with him.

“Yea, I’m here,” he whispered, eyeing the black screen of his cell one final time before shoving it back into the darkness where it belonged. “Just thinkin’, I guess.”

There was another static-filled beat, and Ian reached out, putting his movie on pause before setting his forgotten bowl of chips on the table.

_“Sorry,”_ Mickey whispered then, and it was so, so quiet. _“Fuck, I uhh, kinda didn’t think about it before I said that. I know umm…”_ Mickey trailed off, gathering himself apparently, and Ian pulled the walkie up to his chest as he waited. _“I know it’s hard and stuff, being alone I mean, and I probably had a way different family experience than you did so, I’m sorry if umm, that brought up memories or some shit…”_

Another smiled tugged at the corner of Ian’s mouth, threatening to break free at the sudden softness that would overtake Mickey Milkovich in times like these – a softness tinged with expletives that awakened Ian’s soul. It was like Mickey’s walls of sarcasm and anger would fall away to reveal the real person inside, who may just be a Hell of a lot more sensitive and caring that Ian would have first imagined.

“Nah it’s fine, I just…yea. I had a big family.” Ian wiped a tear from his eye. “But umm, it’s only me now.”

_“I’m sorry, man.”_

“Nah, don’t be.” Ian tried to laugh, but it came out half-hearted and weak. “Not your fault.”

Their comfortable silence returned for a solid five minutes then, both of them doing nothing more than basking in the other’s presence on the other end of the line.

Ian sunk down into the sheets, staring at the ceiling as he thought about different things – a million different things between _then_ and _now_ , and not one of those things was his siblings.

_“So umm,”_ Mickey said finally, his voice so fucking beautiful amongst the quiet that Ian almost started to cry again. _“I’m gunna be radio silent for the next day or two.”_

Ian grabbed the walkie up immediately, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest at the prospect of not hearing Mickey for a period of more than fifteen hours.

“Why?” he asked, not hiding his worried panic in the slightest.

_“Relax,”_ Mickey chuckled, and Ian did. Mickey seemed to have the ability to just tell Ian to do things, and he would do them, without even meaning to. _“I just wanna get a few more things before I hit the road. I wanna be in and out as quick as I can and although I love our little chats…”_

“Yea, I get it,” Ian finished for him, smiling up at the water stains. “Don’t need a distraction...”

_“I didn’t mean it like that.”_ Mickey sounded hurt, but Ian only smiled, because he knew Mickey hadn’t mean it like that; in fact, Ian hadn’t meant it like that, either.

“No no, I get it Mick, honestly.” Ian grinned, making sure the faraway man on the other end could hear his lightheartedness. “Especially if you have to go into the city; you can’t afford a mistake or a delay, not there.”

It was logic 101.

_“Yea, don’t need to be eaten or some shit.”_

It was meant to be a joke, but there was clearly an undertone of worry in Mickey’s voice, and Ian swallowed.

“So we’ll talk in a few days?” he asked instead, not wanting to think too long or too hard about the idea of something happening and never hearing from Mickey again.

_“Yea. Day after tomorrow at noon, I’ll check in.”_

Ian breathed at that, and he breathed, and he let the words settle into his heart and his bones.

“Okay, day after tomorrow at noon.”

_“Yea that’s what I said, champ.”_

Fuck, Ian loved his abrasive facetiousness. Maybe it was the way Mickey was being in the moment – so open yet so clearly worried despite trying hard to put on a front – that suddenly gave Ian the courage to ask the one question he had been way too afraid of knowing the answer to.

“Hey Mick?” Ian asked, and he barely noticed his hands were shaking.

_“Yea?”_

“What’s your immunity type?” Ian swallowed, glancing away from the walkie and out into the hallway, as if not looking when Mickey’s words came back through the speaker would somehow make the knowing of it any easier.

Mickey was still alive, which meant he _had_ to have some sort of immunity…

_“A1”_ Mickey replied easily, and Ian felt his heart drop.

Immunity Type A1 meant you were immune to the airborne strain of the virus, but not the Direct Contact strain.

Lip had been Type A1…

If Mickey got bit…

“Okay,” Ian agreed simply, and it was way too fucking quiet as he tried not to think about any of it.

_“What about you?”_

“Type B.”

_“No shit!?”_ Mickey exclaimed, his voice even more impressed than it had been talking about the stupid DVD player. _“You’re one of those rare motherfuckers who can’t catch it?”_

Ian smiled a little, mostly from the way Mickey said that as if it were a good thing.

It wasn’t.

Ian would have rather died a long time ago.

“Yea, I guess.”

The static echoed out around them for the last time that night, enshrouding Ian like a blanket, keeping him safe and warm from the things that would threaten to take his sunshine away.

_“Alright well, get some sleep.”_ Mickey yawned through the speaker, causing Ian’s eyes to flutter. _“I’ll talk to you in two days, okay?”_

“Okay.”

_“Alright, night.”_

“Hey Mickey?” Ian said then, the words escaping his mouth before he even knew they were going to.

_“Yea, Gallagher?”_

“Be careful.” It was so, so soft; and so, so quiet.

Ian didn’t care.

There was only a beat of silence before Mickey came back through, voice just as vulnerable and telling.

_“I will, Ian. I promise.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is:  
> Baby Bunting by Scarlet Tanager
> 
> -For those wondering, Mickey will officially make his appearance in Chapter Six!


	5. Up, Into the Heavens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian struggles and tries to keep himself busy as Mickey makes his way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has Ian in some dark places at times.  
> It was a rough one for me to write.  
> *Warning* for depressive moments and strong suicidal thoughts.
> 
> Thank you for your patience! This is the longest chapter yet, and will probably be the longest chapter of the story. It covers a bit of time, and there is a lot of dialogue.

DAY SIX

_Ian had thought he’d been scratched by debris, or had just bumped into something – he had felt the sting as he’d been running, but he’d been too focused on Lip to pay any attention to himself._

_“Shit,” Ian hissed, eyeing the tear in his long-sleeved t-shirt, and for one of the only times in his life, Ian was thankful he had TypeB immunity – he could never become infected. “Here, hold this.” Ian handed Lip the flashlight, who took it, aiming it at Ian’s arm as Ian ripped the fabric with his other hand, and a massive bite mark came suddenly into view, teeth holes and blood mingling with yellowed saliva and dirt._

_“You need to get home, **now** ,” Lip declared, standing up suddenly with a rather forceful grunt. “Clean that shit out.”_

_Ian eyed the way his brother held the side of his ribs as he stood._

_“Are they broken?” Ian inquired, his stomach sinking as he took the flashlight back and reattached it to the muzzle, mentally calculating just how long they had to make it home before sunset._

_“Don’t think so, just bruised maybe…”_

_“Let’s go.”_

_Lip grabbed his gun, his teeth gnashing together as he winced in pain at the movement, and Ian knew they weren’t going to have enough time._

_Spinning on his heel, Ian raised his rifle and pointed it down the stairs; he knew it was cleared – every body between them and the ground now had a bullet in its skull – but that didn’t stop his heart from hammering in his chest as he lead Lip slowly back down the stairwell in the dark, the beam of his flashlight scanning over the cement walls like a beacon._

_“Fuck,” Lip hissed from under his breath behind him, and Ian turned, only to see his brother holding his side tighter._

_“They’re broken,” Ian said, and didn’t need to see them to know, he could tell by the look on Lip’s face._

_“No, they’re not, it’s…”_

_“Stop lying to me.” Ian stepped over the grey, stinking body of one of Them – one that he had taken out only minutes before – and lead them further down the stairwell, closer to the light of day that awaited them on the main floor._

_“I’m not fuckin’ lying, man.” Lip grunted more with every step, and Ian just rolled his eyes at both the sound **and** his brother’s unending stubbornness._

_“You don’t need to protect me from the truth, Lip. I think we have bigger shit to worry about.” Ian stopped at the landing on the final set of stairs and handed his rifle back to his brother before reaching down to grab onto the sweater of one of Them and lift It out of the way, so Lip wouldn’t have to maneuver over It. “Besides, if they’re broken, we probably won’t be able to make it back home,” Ian admitted, a sound of disgust escaping his lips at the closeness of the body he moved. “We’re gunna have to stay in the city.”_

_Lip was breathing harder from behind him now, even though they’d stopped for a moment. Standing, Ian grabbing his gun back and sett the butt of it against the ground between them so the beam of the flashlight radiated up from below, illuminating their faces and basking them in a glow that suddenly made Ian’s heart stop beating in his chest._

_Lip was pale – too pale for a couple broken ribs; his colour was all wrong, and the sheen of sweat on his skin made him shine in a way that made Ian swallow loudly in the quiet, the action making a sob stick somewhere in his throat as the realization of **something** tried to claw its way into his mind, but he refused to let it in._

_Ian couldn’t fucking let it in._

_“Lip,” he said, but it came out as a whisper, and his brother’s blue eyes landed on his own, the hint of a smile trying to tug up the corner of his mouth, but it failed completely._

_Without saying anything, Lip pulled his hand away from his side and held it up between them in the dim light; it was covered in blood, and Ian felt something twist inside him that made the bile rise up his throat, like he was being torn apart by a million knives covered in poison and fear._

_Ian’s own hand shot out automatically, grabbing the hem of Lip’s black sweater and lifting it without even knowing what he was doing; he was frozen inside his mind – like his thoughts had gone from a liquid to a solid as his body went cold, cold – and his limbs were now working entirely of their own volition._

_“Told you I wasn’t lying,” Lip said simply, watching as Ian lifted his shirt high enough that the bite mark on his left torso came into view, and everything Ian had ever been afraid of was nothing compared to the unending pit of fear he was hurled into in that moment, the darkness around him turning to hopelessness – sadness – as it closed in around him, trying to drown him in fucking emptiness._

_“No,” Ian whimpered then, and he didn’t mean for it to sound that way – he didn’t want to sound as helpless as he now felt in front of Lip. “No no no no…”_

_The backs of his eyes began to burn, and Ian noticed absently as he looked into his brother’s face that his hands were trembling, the light from the flashlight on the rifle shaking back and forth, casting abrupt shadows over Lip’s face that only made Ian feel more terrified and sick, like he was watching the flashing images of a horror movie._

_“Hey,” Lip huffed, letting that feigned smile pull up his mouth as he reached out and laid a hand on Ian’s cheek. “You need to get home.”_

_“What?” Ian spat, entirely affronted as the tears finally escaped his eyes – tears that he never realized at the time would only be the first of many. “No! I’m not leaving you!”_

_“Ian.” Lip stepped closer, wrapping that same hand around the back of Ian’s neck and pulling his head so close against his own that their foreheads pressed together._

_“Don’t,” Ian whispered, knowing exactly what was coming, and it took everything Ian had within him not to fucking fall apart; he wanted to – he wanted to fucking fall apart and slump down into his big brother’s arms so Lip could hold him up and hold him together, because that’s what he had been doing since the day Ian was born – but the sudden realization that in the blink of an eye, Lip was no longer going to be there was too fucking sudden, and the thoughts in Ian’s head were racing too fucking fast for him to process anything besides the thought of being alone; but he had to be strong then, for his brother._

_It wasn’t supposed to happen that way._

_“Ian,” Lip repeated, and Ian heard the way the word caught in his brother’s throat – saw the way his brother’s eyes left his own and glanced down at their feet. “You have to go.”_

_“No.” Ian stood back suddenly, his mind tripping over itself again as it went from realization to panic. “No I can take you home.” Ian glanced around quickly, as if looking for an answer as he wiped the tears from his face. “No you can make it there at least and wait it out…”_

_“Ian.” It was harsher this time – louder – and Ian stopped moving to look back at his brother. Lip was shaking his head, slowly, and every movement made the panic turn into denial._

_“Fuck you, Lip. No. You’re fine.” Ian held his gun up higher in the darkness, as if having it closer would protect him and keep the last thing he held dear from leaving him forever. “The tests at the beginning, they may have gotten it wrong; I can’t be the only Type B in the family. Maybe you are, too. Maybe they got it wrong…”_

_“Look at me!” Lip yelled suddenly, his voice so loud in the small space that Ian flinched at the angry echo that travelled up, up into the black shadows of the higher floors._

_Ian’s bottom lip trembled beneath the teeth that were chewing it within an inch of its life._

_“I am looking at you.”_

_“Then you see,” Lip whispered, voice so quiet now that Ian did begin to fall apart completely then, no longer able to hold it back. “You see what’s happening.”_

_It was obvious; Lip’s skin was graying by the minute, and the sweat was turning into beads on his forehead._

_“Yea,” Ian cried, the tears streaming down his face catching the yellowed glow of the flashlight and sparkling in his eyes as a gasping sob turned his words to nothing more than the whimperings of a crying child. “Yea Lip, I see.”_

It was pitch black when Ian shot up in his bed, chest heaving under the weight of regret and grief as he was still on the edges of his worst nightmare.

“Lip!” he yelled in waking, not actually meaning to as he looked automatically towards the window for some sort of respite, but no sunlight seeped in through the crack of the barricade – it was still too early – so Ian’s darkness just continued closing in. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

Letting his hand find his bare chest as it always did, Ian dug his shaking fingers into his skin so he could feel the heart within his ribs hammering, like it was trying to break free of the memories.

These were memories he had dreamed about a hundred times before, but this time it felt worse somehow, and Ian didn’t understand why.

Turning, Ian swung his legs out of bed blindly in the night, his feet finding the floor and grounding him the only way he knew how as his breath came faster, the image of Lip’s face in the beam of that fucking flashlight seared into the darkness in front of him.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he repeated, over and over, letting the sound of his own voice fill his ears.

As if on instinct, Ian’s hand fumbled against the table before he felt the walkie beneath his fingers and pulled it hard against his chest; he wanted to radio Mickey, but he knew it would be pointless; it was way too fucking late – or too early – and besides, Mickey was out of reach until the next day…

“Oh fuck,” Ian gasped deeply at the realization and stood in his pitch-black room, pacing back and forth from wall to wall, his chest tightening, tightening. “You don’t need Mickey,” Ian reasoned with himself, pressing the walkie harder against his chest, and he swore he could feel his heartbeat through the plastic and the batteries. “You went two years without Mickey, you’re fine.”

That image of Lip was unwavering, though, and every time Ian blinked it flashed into his vision; so he forced his eyes to stay open, feeling them burn against the dryness and the air for as long as he could.

“Go away,” he whispered, the words tripping and trembling as they tumbled out. “Please, Lip. Just go away…”

The panic ebbed slightly then at the saying of his brother’s name – at asking Lip directly, like his fucking ghost were somehow in control of Ian’s thoughts – and Ian came suddenly to his senses, reaching blindly back out for the table and flipping on the lantern, half-expecting to see his siblings standing in the corners of the room, watching him, just waiting for the day he’d join them.

“Fuck,” Ian sighed again, letting the light calm him as he sat back down hard on the edge of his bed, and he noticed absently that the knuckles of his hands were whiter than snow from gripping the walkie so hard, like it was his lifeline, just as much as the sun.

Mickey’s picture was leaning against the lantern, and at just the sight of it, Ian felt his chest ease and his breathing slow – he felt his heartbeat return to a normal pace as the image of Lip in his mind was replaced abruptly by a different set of blue eyes.

Grabbing up the photo, Ian held it close to his face, his finger coming up absently to trace the shape of Mickey’s nose, his brow bone…

“Don’t,” Ian whispered, just like he had said to his brother in his dream – in his memory. “Don’t you fucking leave me, too.”

~

Strolling over to the corn in the late-morning sun, Ian grabbed an ear and cut it free; it wasn’t fully ready yet, but it would do for the chickens.

They weren’t particularly picky.

Opening the door to the coop, Ian stepped inside before locking himself in and shoving the knife back into the sheath at his waist.

“You hungry?” he asked, getting nothing in return but the soft clucking of indifference. “That’s what I thought.”

Peeling the husk off, Ian spent more time than was probably necessary plucking almost every single tiny hair off the cob; he knew he was doing it to keep his mind occupied and busy; he needed to be doing _something_ – fuck, he needed to be doing _anything_ – until the next day at noon, when Mickey would come back through the speaker and remind him that it hadn’t all been a dream, and everything was still okay.

The obsessive action was maybe unnecessary, but it did the job; by the time Ian had cleaned the cob completely, the sun had moved a little further in the sky, and he was thankful.

“Here,” he sighed, removing his knife once more before dragging it down the cob in his hand, causing the kernels to fly free and land in the grass. “Warm up a bit.”

There was a storm front moving in; Ian could tell by the way the wind had shifted earlier in the day as it whipped off Lake Michigan, a few degrees cooler than it had been only a few hours before when he’d gone into the garden at sunrise to spend some time with the ghost of his brother, whose blood, sweat, and tears sat buried amongst the very seeds he had planted, the roots of which still taking hold beneath the earth.

“Lip told me once that corn warmed you guys up,” Ian told the chickens, a small smile pulling up the corner of his mouth at the memory. “Something about calories or some shit. Fuck if I know, I was never the smart one.”

Another strong gust of wind brushed past him then – just as Ian cut the last kernels from the now-empty cob – causing Ian’s longer hair to whip around his face and the shorter strands of his beard to shift slightly against his jaw.

Ian glanced up towards the trees, watching the way the leaves turned over in the breeze, showing their paler undersides.

“Yup,” he sighed, years of instinct confirming his suspicions. “Storm’s comin’.”

Grabbing the few eggs that sat snuggled in the tiny hutch, Ian stepped back out into the garden, trying not to let the panic and the worry at the memory of what had happened the last time a storm came through cloud his mind and drag him even further down than he already was; and he tried not to reminisce about the day before and the Thing in the sun; and he _especially_ tried not to think about the fact that this time, Mickey wouldn’t even be there to comfort him.

It was going to be a long fucking day, and an even longer night.

When the first drops began to fall, Ian was still sitting on his chair in his tiny kitchen on the back porch, watching the way the flame from the propane burner flicked blue in the fading light of the darkening skies. The temperature had dropped even further, and he glanced towards the coop out of habit, glad to see the chickens had disappeared inside the covered hutch.

Steam was wafting up from the pot in front of him as Ian stirred the warming water methodically, the action lulling him into a kind of daze as he focused on the alley and the quiet sounds of raindrops tapping against the empty houses and the leaves around him.

A movement caught his attention then, and Ian’s heart hammered for just an instant until his gaze shifted and landed on the deer as it stepped out from behind the smoking shed, its hooves on the weathered road barely making a sound.

Ian watched her like he always did, almost feeling guilty that he was protected there from the rain while she was left out in the open, tail and ears flicking sporadically to try and stave off the errant drops that began coming harder from the sky.

“You checkin’ on me?” Ian raised an eyebrow as she turned towards the sound of his voice, those large, dark eyes piercing straight into Ian’s soul in a way that was either completely unnatural, or so natural it was simply foreign. “Yea,” he confirmed, as if answering a question the doe would never be able to speak aloud. “I’m still here.”

The first crack of thunder echoed overhead then, and she turned on a dime at the rumble, taking off down the alley in a flurry of limbs before disappearing from sight.

Ian stared at the empty spot where she had just been and thought suddenly of Mickey, wondering absently if it was just some sort of cosmic coincidence that the deer had come into his life at the exact same time Mickey had, or if it meant something more – something he’d never fully be able to comprehend, just like most things that happened to him these days…

The water in front of him finally started to boil then, so Ian opened the bag of dried spaghetti and took out a handful, breaking it in half before tossing it in.

A memory was playing somewhere on the edges of his mind that he tried to ignore, because it seemed ridiculous that he was even thinking about it or considering it; but what was more prevalent and important Ian supposed was the fact that he needed to keep himself busy so he didn’t go fucking insane in the quiet of his walkie.

“Fuck it,” he huffed after a moment – turning down the flame of the burner as a flash of lightning lit up overhead – and stood from his seat, heading in through the kitchen towards the stacks of books under the stairs in the living room.

Years ago, when Debbie had first become pregnant, Ian remembered she had gone through a phase where she had been obsessed with dreams; she had said something once about how the new person growing inside her fucked with her mind at night, and when she became convinced Franny was trying to tell her something, she had gotten a book on dream interpretations, spending months on end deciphering the images that plagued her while she slept.

Ian didn’t want to know about his dreams – they were too dark, and he already knew there was nothing there to interpret – but he wondered about the deer sometimes; sure, maybe it wasn’t a dream per se, but her sudden appearance and her interest in him in particular made him curious more often than not – made him wonder about that cosmic coincidence. So – despite his doubts about the accuracy of anything besides science – Ian knelt down in front of the small stacks and began digging, finally finding what he was looking for near the bottom of a pile of children’s books Franny would never get to read.

_Read me this one!_ Liam said suddenly, causing Ian’s eyes to close automatically as he was catapulted backwards in time, his head falling instantly into his knees as his heart squeezed inside him and the panic clawed its way into his chest and his head at the same time the flashback did.

Liam was standing beside him – no more than four years old – his tiny hand holding a picture book out to Ian as he sat at the dining table, trying his best to finish his homework before Fiona came home.

_“Not right now, Liam,”_ Ian had said, his brain trying to remember the term his English teacher had used to describe when the atmosphere outside echoed the emotions of the person in the story, just as a crack of thunder rumbled again somewhere overhead – louder this time – and Ian crumpled in on himself, tears stinging his eyes as they fought to break free.

“Stop!” he pleaded, his forehead dragging along the floor as he rocked against it. “Please, stop!”

_Otay,_ Liam had muttered, waddling away into the living room in search of someone more willing.

Ian’s lungs stopped working, everything within him squeezing together so tightly that Ian was sure he would turn into a diamond from the pressure. Those tears were now streaming down his face, and his mouth fell open in a cry that never actually came.

“I should have read you the book,” he whimpered, struggling so harshly for breath that his eyes reopened, nothing but the stained floor entering his vision as he pressed his forehead harder into it. “I’m sorry I didn’t read you the book!”

Gasping sobs racked Ian’s chest and everything burned: his throat, his lungs, his eyes; but when he focused then on the muted light of day at the corners of his vision, it all abated slightly and he pushed himself back up onto his knees, his hands grasping so hard onto his thighs that he knew there would be bruises.

“Count, Ian,” he chastised himself, trying to remember any semblance of what had kept him sane before Mickey had come.

Taking a long, deep breath through trembling lips, Ian counted inside his head, doing the same as he exhaled; but he was panicking so much that eventually, each breath barely lasted a second.

“Calm down. Fuck just, calm down.” Ian lifted his hands and tangled his fingers into his hair, grabbing it tightly until he felt the pain, as if the sensation could bring him back to the present.

“Fuck, _why are you being like this!?_ ” he screamed suddenly – not even realizing it was coming until it was out – and he aimed the question at the memories in his mind that seemed intent on destroying him today as a sudden wave of emotion crashed down into him; but he didn’t need to ask the question really, he already knew the answer:

It was because Mickey was gone, and he hated it – he hated it because after years of struggling and finally finding a way to manage, he shouldn’t be this dependant on someone else now; but then again, Ian reminded himself, he’d never really had a fucking choice. When his world had gone from empty to inexplicably full in the blink of an eye, things had apparently happened in the marrow of his bones – marrow that had shifted from the idea of simply surviving to the possibility of maybe – one day – thriving.

That was something that could never just be shaken off.

“Fuck.” Tears continued to stream down Ian’s face as he repeated his counting – one two three four five six seven eight – and the burning in his chest finally ebbed back slightly, allowing his lungs to expand as Ian sucked in a breath so large he felt it in his blood. 

Closing his eyes for one final moment, Ian focused on the sound of the rain and the flash of lightning behind his closed lids as the sky darkened, letting the rumble of thunder kick-start his heart into beating normally again before eventually reopening them, the flashback now nothing more than a memory.

“Pathetic fallacy,” he whispered to himself there in the storm, feeling the tears stop as he reached out for Debbie’s weathered copy of _Dream Interpretations_ and picked it up before standing, eyeing the solemn clouds beyond the window as the drops pelted against it – echoing his mood like his teacher had explained – and Ian didn’t think he would ever forget that term again. “Pathetic fallacy.”

While the pasta finished boiling, Ian picked basil leaves away from their stems as he sat back in his chair, trying to focus on the monotony of the task at hand once more as he tossed those leaves one by one into the massive mortar and pestle. The job was soothing somehow, and after awhile, Ian realized he was whispering something to himself so quietly that he’d barely even noticed he was doing it.

“He loves me,” he said, plucking another leaf, and smiled a little at the words – at how childish and carefree he felt in the moment after his episode only fifteen minutes prior – before tearing off another. “He loves me not.”

With every pluck Ian repeated it, over and over again until thoughts of Mickey filled him under the roiling skies, sending tiny rays of Mickey-shaped sunlight to illuminate the shadows that were hidden inside himself.

Ian closed his eyes then, his hands continuing their task blindly as he pictured the face of that man, his own green eyes searching the strong features, asking a thousand questions, and Mickey’s blue eyes staring back with a thousand answers.

Without meaning to, Ian smiled again, and imagined himself pressing forward just enough that his lips could brush against Mickey’s in the afternoon sun his mind had created, and the image and the warmth that spread across his skin then was now so unfamiliar and unnerving that he barely recognized it; he hadn’t kissed anyone in so long he’d probably forgotten how to do it, so in his mind, Ian only let his lips linger against Mickey’s for the briefest of moments before pulling away; but he wanted more – he needed so much more.

“Stop,” Ian mumbled to himself then, his eyes reopening to the emptiness and the storm, and he hadn’t even noticed the stem in his hand was now free of all its leaves – each one piled high in the mortar – and he definitely hadn’t noticed if the last leaf had landed on _he loves me_ or _he loves me not_. “Quit your fuckin’ daydreamin’.”

Glancing automatically to his little shelf where he kept his plates, Ian half-expected to see Mickey’s picture there, but it was still upstairs in his room, where Ian intended to keep it, mostly so that he wasn’t constantly being reminded of the man in Minneapolis as he planned to make his way home to Chicago, a million dark places and Things between them that could keep it all from happening.

Another crack of thunder rumbled overhead and Ian actually flinched a little at the sound, all of South Side lighting up under a flash of lightning that bolted downwards in the west, causing Ian to begin his grinding faster than usual, the steady sound of stone against stone as he hammered the pestle down, bringing back that monotony that Ian wanted to consume him whole until twelve noon the next day.

~

Reattaching all the barricades over the windows in the fading light, Ian rechecked them four times, waiting until he was shrouded in darkness before making his way up the stairs to his room and flicking on his tiny lantern, turning the knob so it glowed at barely a spark.

Flipping Debbie’s dream book open in his hands, Ian sat on the edge of the bed and scooted closer to the light, wanting to read through as quickly as possible so he could flip the lantern back off and hide in the dark while the storm continued to rage, bringing God knows what out from the shadows and into the Back of the Yards.

There was a whole section on animals, and Ian felt like he was back in the library at Douglas Park as he skimmed the glossary, finding _Deer_ written there and flipping to page one-hundred-nineteen, where the watercolor painting of a doe in ethereal blues and blacks made him think of Mickey, and also made him wonder if there really was something greater out there – something greater than himself and this quiet place.

“Deer,” he read aloud, his voice harsh in the tiny room. “Dreams where deer are present call for a heightened state of awareness as to what is happening around you in waking life. Deer are known to always be on high alert, paying attention to every sound and movement around them in the wilderness; this may signify the need for a heightened alertness during the daylight hours…”

Ian swallowed, his mouth suddenly going dry as he glanced toward the barricaded window behind him, imagining Them out there in the night, and Them out there in the day, graying fingers latching onto a chain-link fence as They stare back at him in the sun with clouded eyes.

Turning back to the book, Ian lifted it closer to his face, eyes scanning over the last of the paragraph.

“Deer also represent innocence, vulnerability, positivity, and blessings. When deer appear to you in a dream, it may be alluding to your softer emotional side, as they are sometimes associated with lovesickness and therefore may become a symbol of unrequited love or the lover one craves in waking life.” Ian stopped, just as another rumble of thunder echoed somewhere above him, the sound growing quieter as the storm finally moved away. “Fuck off,” he snorted in the silence, rolling his eyes at the pages and reminding himself that this shit made no sense; and besides, the deer was real – it wasn’t in a dream – so he snapped the book closed and tossed it onto the floor, silently telling the universe to go fuck itself.

Normally, Ian would leave the lantern on for a bit before letting sleep take him, but after last time, he wasn’t taking any chances; so Ian reached out instead and flicked it off, his world going black as a flash of lighting blinked quickly in and out of existence through the cracked weld.

Flopping backwards and scooting himself into the middle of the bed, Ian stretched out on top of his blankets fully clothed; it was uncomfortable, but he wanted to be ready, just in case things went wrong and They came for him again in the night – if they came for him again and broke down his doors and his walls and everything he had built to keep himself safe.

Checking his watch, Ian felt himself swallow at the dim, green glow of the face that said it was just closing in on nine, the time he’d usually be impatiently waiting to talk to Mickey. His heart was already thudding hard in his chest at the impending night, but knowing that no words would float to him from the radio while he waited only made it worse.

Ian closed his eyes to the darkness, reaching out absently in the black and grabbing Mickey’s picture up from off the table and bringing it up to his chest. Ian laid it gently between his palm and the fabric of his shirt – pressing Mickey against him – reminding himself that there was something solid and real out there to stay alive for, and not at all thinking about craving his love in the waking day...

Ian laid like that for so long he lost track of time, doing nothing more than listening to the rain against the roof as it slowed over the course of hours, each tap against the shingles causing tiredness to crawl its way into Ian’s bones and send him off into nothing; and even though he slept, Ian was positive he was still listening, even as dreams of pink lips he had never dreamed about before entered his mind and made all his other senses disappear.

~

DAY SEVEN

The crackle of wavelengths and a sudden burst of static startled Ian awake; sunlight was pouring in through that weathered seam over his window, and the dust was back to floating absently through the stagnant air of his bedroom, making Ian feel like he was some sort of cosmic giant, and each tiny speck of dust was a planet he watched over.

_“Yo, Gallagher!”_ Mickey’s voice came suddenly, the vibration of his voice rumbling against Ian’s chest.

At the familiar cadence, the heart in Ian’s chest squeezed and he smiled despite himself, shuffling his body up into a sitting position so he could lean against the wall. The walkie was in his hand, and Ian felt his brows furrow as he wondered just when the fuck he had picked it up from off the table and turned it on…

Had he done that while he slept? Had he cradled it to his chest in dreaming?

Between the walkie and his palm was Mickey’s photograph, still as perfect as the day Ian had found it.

“Hey Mick,” Ian said quietly, placing Mickey’s picture back on the nightstand and staring into those blue eyes longer than was probably normal.

_“Shit, there you are, man! Was startin’ to worry a bit.”_ Mickey chuckled, but Ian was sure there was relief in his voice, which only made a warmth spread out into his own limbs, and maybe into his dick.

Ian glanced at his watch again – surprised to see he had slept past noon – before reaching that same hand down to palm himself through the front of the jeans he still wore, trying to rein himself in.

“Sorry, was still sleeping,” Ian admitted, the grin on his face only growing, and in the back of his mind Ian couldn’t help but wonder how in a single week, a stranger had turned the tide of four whole years of misery.

_“Well fuck, rise and shine Cinderella!”_

Under Ian’s palm, he felt himself grow harder at those words, his own heat radiating through the fabric as he imagined hearing those very words in person one day, maybe being whispered in his ear one distant morning…

“I thought I was Snow White!?” Ian laughed, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried hard to think of anything else whatsoever, focusing on how it was both utterly amusing and adorable that Mickey seemed to enjoy comparing him to Disney princesses any chance he got.

_“Whatever, they all talked to animals and shit…”_

“I think Cinderella only spoke to mice.”

 _“Well I’m sure the day you find one crawlin’ around your fuckin’ bedroom you’ll ask it how it’s doin’,”_ Mickey snorted, causing a genuine laugh to escape Ian’s chest.

“I don’t think you’re one to talk Disney, _Mickey_ ,” Ian enunciated, focusing on his name like it were obvious.

_“The fuck does that mean?”_

“Are you kidding me?”

_“What?”_

“Umm, _Mickey_?” Ian scoffed, feeling his erection finally abate a little under their ramblings. “Like the fucking mouse!?”

There was silence for a moment, and Ian smiled into it before stepping out of bed to unhook the barricade, letting the mid-day sun stream in and bathe him in a warmth and happiness he still wasn’t sure he deserved.

 _“Yea okay smartass,”_ Mickey huffed then, his voice feigning annoyance in a way that was plain to see through. _“But that definitely makes you Cinderella then.”_

Flopping back down into bed, Ian stared up at the ceiling, grinning like an idiot at absolutely fucking nothing.

“Why’s that?”

_“Ain’t it obvious?”_

“No.”

_“You’re talkin’ to me, and I’m the mouse, and if Cinderella only talks to mice, then I was right.”_

Rolling himself onto his side, Ian cradled the walkie closer to his chin and stared at Mickey’s tiny picture, chewing on his lip to keep himself from feeling things he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to come back from.

“Oh you were, were you?”

_“Mhmm, just accept it Cinderelly. I’m always right.”_

“Okay Mouse,” Ian teased, and for some reason thought that might just be a name he let stick, mostly because it seemed like it was the opposite of everything Mickey was, like a four-hundred pound guy being called _Tiny_. “So did you get everything you needed?” Ian asked, changing the subject before Mickey could derail that idea entirely, and he could maybe keep it to himself for a little while longer.

_“Fuck yea, I’m good to go.”_

That swarm of butterflies that had been lying dormant fluttered suddenly to life somewhere deep inside Ian’s ribcage at those words, sending vibrations of excitement and nervousness out into his body, bringing him suddenly to life in a way he hadn’t known in a long, long time.

“So,” Ian started, sitting up in the warmth of the room as the sun cast his shadow dark across the wall. “When are you going to leave?”

 _“Tomorrow,”_ Mickey confessed, and there was a sudden softness in that single word, like he was just as astonished and thankful at the realization that soon, they’d be together – staring into the eyes of a stranger after years of unwelcomed and unwanted solitude.

Soon.

“Shit, Mickey,” Ian breathed, his hand coming up to rub over his face. “Is it…” Ian stopped, the words not wanting to come out as his face blushed.

_“Is it what?”_

Clearing his throat a little, Ian swallowed the words down, thinking it was maybe way too fucking embarrassing to ask out loud.

“Nah, nothing. Never mind.” Ian got up and strolled into the bathroom, setting the walkie down onto the porcelain of the sink as he took the barricade off the window over the tub.

 _“Fuck that man, just spit it out,”_ Mickey barked, and he sounded curious; intrigued, too, maybe.

Ian leaned against the edge of the tub, staring at the walkie as he considered for a moment before shrugging his way out of his t-shirt and tossing it onto the floor, leaving his bare skin to glow tan in the sunlight.

“Fuck it,” Ian mumbled to himself, grabbing the walkie up from off the sink before pressing the button down. “I was gunna say, is it weird that I’m nervous?” he admitted, and felt that flush return to his chest and his cheeks as he shoved the knuckles of his hand against his tightened lips in embarrassment, the longer strands of hair at the front of his head falling into his face.

Ian _was_ nervous, for all the reasons someone could imagine; it wasn’t just the liking and the _crush_ that sizzled under his skin, or the worrying about what Mickey might think of him. It was bigger than that. It was the thought of opening his mouth to speak to someone in person while trying to remember what that even felt like – what it felt like to take subtle cues, or to understand the shift in someone’s stance or a flicker of something in their eyes.

It was everything about being human.

That comfortable silence returned then, and Ian wasn’t surprised at it; he welcomed it these days, because he knew enough now to know that Mickey was simply thinking – was considering – while trying to decide just what to say, and usually what came back to Ian was the opposite of what he had expected.

Pushing himself up to standing, Ian stepped in front of the mirror, looking at his disheveled hair that hadn’t been washed in too long now and combing his free hand through it. Deciding abruptly that he needed to cut it before Mickey came, Ian swore to himself that the decision was simply for hygienic purposes, and had nothing at all to do with his appearance or looking decent or attractive…

 _“Nah,”_ Mickey said then finally, causing Ian to bring the walkie back up so he could look at the slats and picture Mickey’s mouth saying the words. _“I’m kinda nervous and shit too, I guess.”_

There was a soft shyness in that that admission that made Ian smile, and that calmness that he hadn’t felt once the previous day returned to him then like a long lost lover – enfolding him in comfort and security – and Ian didn’t wonder at all if Mickey was worrying about what he might think of him, too; because that wasn’t the thing that was most important.

What mattered was no longer being alone.

“Good,” Ian whispered back, so quietly he didn’t even know if it made it through the speaker to the other end, but he really didn’t care. “So I’ll talk to you tonight then? Before you leave?”

 _“Sure thing, princess.”_ Mickey was smiling, Ian could tell. _“Have a good day, and uhh, be safe.”_

Staring at his reflection, Ian saw something in his face then that he didn’t recognize; it was the softening of features and a glow that radiated from somewhere he couldn’t actually see, but if he had to put a name to it, he thought maybe he was seeing his soul awaken from its two-year slumber.

Ian watched himself raise the walkie to his lips, never once tearing his eyes away from their green reflection in the glass.

“You, too, Mouse,” he replied – flicking the radio off before Mickey could protest – and grinned like he didn’t have a care in the world; and in that moment, he didn’t.

Standing there for what seemed like hours, Ian just watched himself in the mirror – letting his teeth show as he smiled at the stranger across from him – and not a thing in the world could tear his eyes away and make him look down at that oval scar on his arm; a soft, pink reminder of the darkness that was still out there, just waiting to take this new, better version of him away.

~

“So why do you call them Ghosts?” Ian asked later that night, dabbing his finger into the bottom of the bowl in his lap, scooping out the last of the crumbs from his chips and putting them on his tongue, savoring the saltiness as if they were the last crumbs of anything he’d ever fucking eat.

_“Dunno, made sense I guess,”_ Mickey admitted, and Ian could imagine him shrugging carelessly as he chomped away on a handful of popcorn from a microwavable bag Mickey had kept stored away.

When he had first mentioned cooking the kernels in a pan earlier, that flashback had returned to Ian for just a moment – that errant memory of he and his brothers under the blanket fort with a bowl full of popcorn as Lip read to them from _Hell House_ ; but as soon as Mickey had changed subjects and prattled on about his day, the memory had disappeared and Ian had smiled, taking the last handful of his homemade chips out from the Tupperware container he stored them in, shoving them into a bowl, and heading directly upstairs to his room.

Now, it was twenty minutes later and Ian was pressed back against the wall on his bed, legs crossed in front of him in his boxer shorts as the crickets outside played their melancholic melodies.

“How does that make any sense at all?” Ian quipped, tossing the empty bowl onto his nightstand beside Mickey’s picture, which he smiled at, like it was becoming the best kind of habit.

_“I ‘unno, like…”_ Mickey chewed, taking an absent sip of something before swallowing on the distant end of the line. _“…ghosts were people once, too, yea? They had lives and shit, and then they died and became scary motherfuckers that linger around in the shadows like fuckin’ creepers…”_

Ian snorted as he laughed alone in the quiet, that ridiculous explanation actually making more sense than he thought it would.

“Wow,” he chuckled into the slats, feeling the way his cheeks ached with the breadth of the grin that spread across his face. “You got a thing against ghosts, Mickey?” Ian wished Mickey were there in front of him to see whether those blue eyes sparkled a bit at the jesting, or if they clouded a bit in annoyance. Or maybe they’d roll into the back of his head in exasperation...

_“Fuck off.”_

“Were you haunted as a child?” Ian teased, and although he tried to make the question so serious it hurt, as soon as his finger was off the button and Mickey couldn’t hear him, he laughed even more in the warmth from his lantern. The mere idea of being able to look at Mickey in person soon – to laugh with him in person – was setting those butterflies inside Ian’s chest free, and they burst out through his ribs and his skin then, taking his body with them as they floated up, up into the sky.

 _“I dunno, were you dropped on your fuckin’ head?”_ Mickey spat back, but Ian could hear the strain from trying to hold back a laugh. The fact that Ian was getting to know these little sounds made his heart beat faster, and those butterflies carried him higher – even higher into the stars as he imagined getting to know the ticks and his tells of Mickey’s body soon, too.

“Yea Mickey, I was actually!” Ian feigned seriousness, sounding genuinely hurt. “It was a traumatic time for me!”

There was a long hiss of static, and Ian imagined Mickey smiling so widely then in the dark that his teeth shone in the moonlight.

_“Yea yea, alright tough guy.”_

“I’m glad you know that I’m tough.”

 _“Oh, is that a fact?”_ Mickey queried, and fuck Ian wanted to see his face.

“You know where I’m from, Milkovich?”

 _“Shut up,”_ Mickey breathed, a quiet laugh echoing out into the room. _“Seriously though, you ever think about how weird it is that we’re both from South Side?”_

 _All the fucking time,_ Ian thought.

“Maybe we’re just a tougher breed,” he admitted instead, and thought maybe that were true.

_“You know it.”_

Ian let that silence surround them both then, and he sunk further down the wall in answering, propping his pillow up behind his back as he brought his knees up, resting the walkie on his stomach so it could lean up against his thigh, right next to that private part of himself he tried so hard not to think about.

“So when are you gunna leave tomorrow?” Ian asked finally, trying to only let the light shine through, and not the creeping darkness that surged at the possibilities of all the things that could go wrong.

_“Sunrise. Wanna get outta the city as fast as I can as early as I can, put as many miles between me and this fuckin’ place before the sun sets.”_

Ian nodded again like Mickey could see him, chewing on his lip as the expectations and the impatience grew inside his chest.

“You know how long it’s gunna take?”

_“I’m thinkin’ about two weeks, with stopping at night and for meals and shit. I’m gunna come down the number fourteen highway.”_

Ian had spent the afternoon pouring over an old map of Illinois on the table in the basement, one he and Lip had stolen when it had all begun, just in case they’d ever needed to go.

“You got a map?” he questioned, and missed the easiness of GPS, Google Maps, and cell phones for the millionth time.

_“Yea, Gallagher.”_ Mickey laughed in exasperation, as if Ian were an idiot. _“You think I’d know where the fuck I was going if I didn’t?”_

Rolling his eyes, Ian slunk even further onto his blankets, the ends of his boxers rising up and exposing the thick auburn hair that danced over his thighs. Ian reached out and trailed his fingers through it, absently grabbing a strand here and there as he thought.

“We gunna be able to talk you think?” he asked eventually, the question that had been weighing on his mind all day finally tumbling free.

_“Yea man,”_ Mickey confirmed, voice soft again – quiet, considering – and Ian felt his shoulders sink down as a silent weight lifted up from off them. _“I think maybe only for a couple minutes at noon each day though,”_ Mickey continued _. “I packed extra batteries but, I wanna be smart about it, and talkin’ when the sun starts to set is just not the best idea.”_

“Agreed.” Tracing shapes onto the skin of his thigh, Ian didn’t realize at first what he had been spelling, but after focusing on the invisible trail his fingertips left through his hairs, he saw the flourished curl of a cursive _M_ , followed by the _I_ , the _C_ , the _K_ , so on, so forth; and he liked the feel of his name against his skin.

_“Well, I should probably call it a night, Gallagher.”_

Ian’s finger stilled and his eyes found the wall in front of him as he focused on nothing, letting his mind go blank so he didn’t have to think about what the fuck the next two weeks held for either of them.

“Okay, Mick,” he whispered, his throat going a little dry as he tried to clear it as quietly as he could. “Be safe, okay?”

_“Jesus man, relax. It’ll all be fine! Quit your worryin’.”_

Ian really tried to smile at that, but instead he felt his lip quiver; he wanted to tell Mickey that worrying was all he knew how to do anymore – that when it came to the people he cared about, nothing ever worked out like it was supposed to; and he cared about Mickey, he knew that now.

He cared a lot.

“Just…” Ian trailed off, gnawing on the corner of his lip as he rubbed a finger across his eyebrow. “Just shut up and promise me.”

More static hissed out and Ian closed his eyes to it, willing Mickey to make it – willing Mickey to make it there to him.

_“I promise Ian, I will. I’ll be safe.”_ Mickey was serious now, not a single hint of teasing or sarcasm escaping his tone, and Ian nodded one final time, letting that reassuring cadence calm him to the marrow of his being. “ _Every day at noon, alright?”_

“Yea, Mick. Every day at noon.”

~

DAY EIGHT

Tossing his plate into the wash basin on the back porch, Ian paced down the stairs; he had been up since dawn, watching the sky to the northwest with such a burning intensity he was sure that if he focused hard enough, he’d be able to see Mickey making his way home.

Glancing at his watch, Ian saw that it was two minutes to noon, and his heart went suddenly into overdrive then, more so than it had been all morning; his entire body was vibrating now with anticipation and hope – hope that Mickey would actually fucking come through; but it was also trembling with fear and doubt at the idea that he might not.

Beyond all that shit was the simple, unwelcome knowledge that this was only day _one_ of a possible fourteen, and the fact that he was already on edge to the point his hands were shaking was not doing anything to help the anxiety tightening Ian’s chest.

Flicking the walkie on and setting it on one of the back steps, Ian listened to the hiss of static and continued to pace, striding across the grass, past the edge of the vegetable garden to the smoke shed, and back again. Ian closed his eyes as he moved, and listened – listened to that static as the minutes ticked by, his hands finding each other in front of him so his fingers could twist and pull as they fidgeted relentlessly.

_“Ian?”_ Mickey said finally – just as Ian reached the edge of the smoke shed – and his eyes flew open at the sound of that voice, heart hammering as he turned on a dime and ran back to the porch, picking up the walkie so fast he almost dropped it onto the ground.

“Fuck, what took you so long!?” Ian breathed, the weight of everything he feared lifting up from off his shoulders as he leaned back against the side of the house, feeling that fear and anxiety float away with the breeze that picked up then off Lake Michigan.

_“What?”_ Mickey snorted, and Ian couldn’t help but feel warm at the sound. _“Dude, it’s only like, twelve-oh-two.”_

Feeling his brows furrow at that, Ian pulled his watch up to his face and was both surprised and embarrassed as fuck as he watched the time switch from _12:02_ to _12:03_.

Shit, had he really only been pacing for four minutes? Why did it feel like a lifetime…?

“Yea, well…” was all Ian could really manage, and he smiled at himself there in the sun, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck to try and dampen the flush crawling up it.

Their comfortable silence came back to them then, so Ian turned and slunk down onto the stairs, leaning forward so he could rest his head on his knees and feel the warmth of that same sun as it seeped into the dark fabric of his black t-shirt.

_“So I can’t talk long,”_ Mickey confessed then, but Ian didn’t move or react to it – he just wanted to listen for now, which Mickey must have sensed from his lack of response, as he kept going. _“Don’t wanna waste battery, but I think I’m makin’ good progress? Been fuckin’ walkin’ for like over six hours now. Feet aren’t hurtin’ yet, thank fuck. I’m past the edge of the city, looks kinda weird seeing it from a distance y’know? Been in there for years.”_ Mickey stopped, waiting for Ian probably, but Ian just smiled.

“Keep going,” he whispered, closing his eyes to the sounds of life itself.

_“Whatta ya mean? Like, keep walking?”_ Mickey sounded miffed.

“No, dumbass. Keep talking.”

_“Soft bitch.”_ Mickey laughed quietly, and it only made Ian’s smile grow and the warmth in his chest overtake the warmth of the sun on his skin. _“So I’m thinkin’ that if I walk about three miles every hour, which is about what I’m clockin’ with this fuckin’ backpack, I should be there in like a-hundred-and-thirty-five-ish hours, and I’m thinkin’ I walk like twelve hours a day? So I should be in Chicago…”_ Mickey trailed off, and Ian wondered if he was doing the math in his head, and he wondered if his face squished together when he concentrated hard enough, making his eyebrows draw in and his eyes sparkle…

“Like eleven days,” Ian answered for him, a tiny spark of relief igniting somewhere inside him when he realized that even though it wasn’t by much, eleven was way better than fourteen. “Ten more after today, I guess.”

_“What are you, like a mathematician?”_ Mickey snorted, and Ian reopened his eyes to the light, grinning as he watched the heat rise from the pavement in the alley while bugs darted hectically on the air over his garden, glowing like tiny shooting stars in the mid-day sun.

“No, had an old calculator,” Ian lied, though he didn’t know why; he had always been halfway decent at math, and somehow at the end of the world, he’d only gotten better at it.

_“Yea okay, Einstein,”_ Mickey teased, mouth mumbling like he was eating something.

“I’m not the one who rewires and makes shit, Tesla.”

_“Who? Isn’t that a car?”_

Ian’s laugh echoed out across the lawn to the chicken coop, where the hens were clucking away like they didn’t have a care in the world as they plucked bugs from the grass and swallowed them whole.

“Nevermind.”

_“Yea alright,”_ Mickey grumbled, and Ian thought it was cute. _“Listen, I should probably go though. Wanna get back on the road, even though I’m already on it. I’m literally sitting in the middle of the highway man, it’s creepy. Cars everywhere, just dead and rusty, full of people’s shit…”_

Swallowing at the image, Ian was suddenly unbelievably thirsty, so he tried not to dwell on the unpleasant pictures his mind conjured up.

“Alright. Tomorrow again, noon?”

_“Yea.”_

“Alright. Bye, Mick.”

_“Bye.”_

As soon as the static cut out, that weight full of fear and doubt and anxiety that had lifted off of him returned tenfold, and Ian knew it would stay there until the next day – when Mickey’s voice would come back through to him for only a minute or two – and for that tiny increment of time, he’d be carefree, utterly content, and inexplicably whole.

~

DAY NINE

Ian had barely slept, but he hoped that as time went on over the course of the next ten days that sleep would return to him; the more Mickey came through, the more he’d calm down, he knew it. As it was, when he _had_ slept, he’d dreamed, and they weren’t the good kind.

_“Didn’t sleep worth shit last night,”_ Mickey admitted when he came through, causing Ian to rub at the bags under his own eyes and glance up at the overcast sky.

“Me neither.”

_“Too busy worryin’?”_

“Shut up.” Ian didn’t even try to hide it, and he definitely didn’t admit that he’d flicked his lantern on every twenty minutes or so, just to see Mickey’s tiny face for the briefest of moments before flicking it back off again.

_“I slept inside a car I jimmied open,”_ Mickey confessed, and Ian thought that that had been a rather smart decision; he didn’t know why he’d assumed Mickey would be sleeping out in the open.

“Smart. Did you see any of…any Ghosts?”

_“Nah, not yet.”_ Mickey swallowed part of his lunch.

At the sound, Ian glanced towards the smoke shed, wondering absently if maybe tomorrow he should wait to eat his lunch until Mickey radioed in, so then they’d be eating together kind of, almost like a date…

“Stupid,” he mumbled to himself at the idea, but didn’t realize he’d been holding the button down until it beeped when his thumb slacked off. “Shit!”

_“What’s stupid?”_ Mickey queried, mouth full, making Ian wonder just what the Hell he was eating as his cheeks flushed in embarrassment

“No, uhh, nothing. Was just thinkin’ out loud.” Ian shook his head, as if that alone could dispel his own feelings of stupidity.

_“Thinkin’ ‘bout what?”_ Mickey’s voice was curious, content; he was smiling, and it made Ian’s stomach dance like those bugs over his garden.

“Just umm, thinkin’ ‘bout runnin’ to the hardware place later,” Ian lied, even though it wasn’t technically a lie, he _was_ planning on going there later. “Need a new watering can for the garden, old one cracked.”

_“Mhmm. Nice recovery.”_

Ian wasn’t sure how someone he’d never met and who he’d only been talking to for a handful of days could read him like a book; but then again, he was starting to believe that it actually went both ways, especially when he heard the cocky grin that was on Mickey’s lips, even though he’d never even seen it.

“Shut up,” he sighed, trying to masterfully change the subject. “Anyways, it’s time for you to go.” This truth only served to make Ian’s mood sink, and made it feel like the clouds above him were darkening, even though they weren’t – they were actually letting a few rays break through.

_“Yea I probably should. Talk to you tomorrow, Gallagher?”_

“Yea, talk to you then, Milkovich.”

The rest of the day was spent in a haze of business, keeping his mind occupied to stop him from worrying or falling apart.

Ian went to the hardware store a few street over, grabbing not only a new watering can but the few packages of batteries that hung down one of the aisles, tossing them haphazardly inside the can so it was all easier to carry before heading back out into the brightening day, already thinking about how to mend the fraying areas of the chicken coop before calculating how far the rainwater in the tub outside would stretch, and if he’d have to dip into his clean supply of water from the jugs upstairs…

~

DAY TEN

“You sleep better?” Ian asked, tearing off a piece of his jerky with his teeth as he stirred the salad around in his bowl, mixing the oil and vinegar the best he could.

_“Little but, not really. Found a bigger car this time, though.”_

Ian had the sudden flash image of Mickey trying to sleep in a Smart Car or some two-seater, and he snorted out a laugh, only because he knew how cramped he himself would be if he had to shove his long-ass legs in there and actually try to fall asleep…

“Hey, how tall are you?” Ian asked randomly – not really thinking about the question until it had left his lips – and he squeezed his eyes shut once it did, cringing internally.

 _“Why?”_ Mickey queried, but there was no poison in it, only the hint of amusement.

“Just thinking about my tall ass trying to fit inside a car and got curious.” Ian shrugged; it was the truth, even if it maybe didn’t sound like it.

_“Five-seven-ish,”_ Mickey admitted then, completely nonplussed; but that truth made Ian drop his fork into his bowl suddenly as he pictured his long arms draping over the shorter man’s shoulders, maybe pulling him in against him one day… _“How tall are **you**?” _

The question threw Ian for a moment as he was dragged harshly out of his fantasizing.

“Just under six feet. Five-eleven-ish, I think.”

Static hissed out around him then as Mickey went quiet, and Ian wondered if maybe his height was a bad thing; not that it mattered though, right? This wasn’t about anything other than not being alone at the end of the world…

_“Hot,”_ Mickey said suddenly, the word coming so breathily out of nowhere that Ian nearly choked on a slice of tomato as his thighs went warm, all the blood within him going straight to his cock.

Wiping the sweat that had appeared suddenly on his palms off on his jeans, Ian took the radio back up in his hand and swallowed.

“Yea?” he asked, letting his own voice drop to a seductive level he was no longer used to, and although it felt foreign on his tongue, it also felt…right.

_“Not fair that you’ve seen me man and I still have to wait nine days to see you. So, it’s about time I learned something.”_

Ian tossed his still-full bowl up onto the shelf beside him on the back porch, his face going so fucking red as his stomach flipped and flopped like a dying fish that he didn’t think he’d actually be able to eat for at least a day.

Absently, Ian realized that he hadn’t felt so fucking _giddy_ since high school, when Roger Spikey had admitted he had a thing for him.

“Well, whatta you wanna know?” Ian asked, brushing a hand through his hair as he tried to rein in his arousal, which was growing rather tight inside his jeans.

_“Nothin’ right now,”_ Mickey confessed, sounding just as lost with need or want or longing as Ian was, which nearly made the pressure at his pelvis unbearable.

“Oh, okay.” Ian tried not to sound dismayed or completely shattered apart by lust, but knew he failed miserably.

_“How about you tell me something new every day?”_ Mickey said then, voice still so quiet in the even quieter day. _“Like somethin’ to fuckin’ look forward to or whatever, y’know?”_

Ian didn’t really know why, but he pictured Mickey’s weathered hand rubbing along the back of his neck then in nervousness, and Ian knew without a shadow of a doubt that that’s exactly what Mickey was doing in that moment.

He just knew it.

Somehow.

“Sounds good to me.” Ian undid the buckle of his jeans, already knowing the end of their chat was close at hand, and as soon as it was done, there was only one thing he wanted to do.

_“Alright, I’ll think of a good question to ask you tomorrow.”_

“Alright Mick. Be safe and umm, talk to you then.”

_“Sure thing, Ian. Talk then.”_

_Ian._

“Bye.”

As soon as it was quiet again, Ian pulled his cock free of his jeans and grabbed hold of himself there in the daylight, squeezing tightly as those very bugs returned on the same subtle breeze that tickled his pubic hair and made his skin ripple to life.

“Fuck,” he whispered – to nothing but the wind – as every one of his senses sparked to life inside him then, like just the thought of Mickey brought him back to the land of the living, and all around him was beauty and hope, and not a single sliver of shadow…

and it was Mickey he thought of then – perfect, azure eyes gazing up at him from between his thighs as Ian thumbed his precum down over himself, making his dick wet and cool in the open air – and every time the warmth of his own fist tightened and shifted, it was a mouth he envisioned – a perfect mouth with pink lips that sucked and kissed and teased…

and when he came only a minute or two later, it was Mickey who got him there. Whether that was wrong or right – or if that was normal or completely ridiculous – Ian didn’t altogether know and he definitely didn’t care; he just sat in the humidity with his eyes closed, his chest heaving as clean, unpolluted air drifted down into his lungs, setting his blood on fire and reminding him that there was life in him yet.

~

DAY ELEVEN

Sacrificing one jug of water wasn’t going to kill him; the plastic particles might but, fuck it, Ian didn’t really give a shit about things like that anymore.

_“So you sleepin’ any better?”_ Mickey asked, just as Ian upended the jug to fill the watering can at the end of one of his tiny rows of corn.

“Yea, a little.” It wasn’t a complete lie; Ian had slept better the night before, and had only awoken that morning with the distant memory of Lip on the edges of his mind; but just a single look at that seam of sunlight – at Mickey’s picture – had calmed him enough that he hadn’t panicked.

Speaking to Mickey every day – knowing he was getting closer – was managing – somehow – to stamp out the embers of fear that had first claimed Ian’s thoughts; sure, they were still there – especially in the hours and minutes leading up to noon – but they had eased slightly as Ian became more confident in Mickey’s ability to stay safe in the wild spaces between here and there.

_“So I thought of a question,”_ Mickey spat suddenly, his voice a mix of curiousness and nerves, which only made Ian smile at his growing stalks of corn as he watered their bases.

“Shoot.”

_“Ok. What colour is your hair?”_

Ian paused his watering, the simplicity of that question catching him a bit by surprise as that smile spread further across his face. There were a few strands of the hairs in question dangling down in front of Ian’s eyes now in fact, the copper tone lightening the more time he spent in the sun.

“Red,” Ian admitted, and whereas he used to worry about telling other men he was a ginger because he was so self conscious about it, for some reason telling Mickey was easy; but whether that was because Mickey was just Mickey, or because Ian himself hadn’t actually given a flying fuck what Mickey looked like before he’d found his picture, he didn’t really know. “It’s kinda orange now actually, thanks to the sun.”

It was quiet for long enough that Ian made it halfway down the row of corn with his watering can – nerves starting to get the best of him – before Mickey came back through.

_“Hot,”_ he said again, purposefully this time, and Ian couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips as that heat that was starting to become familiar replaced the nervousness inside him.

“Yea?” Ian breathed, tossing the now-empty can aside before sinking down into the shaded dirt between the stalks. “You like that, Milkovich?” 

_“Fuck off,”_ Mickey snorted, which only served to make that heat inside Ian rise, and he thought he’d be jacking off yet again before the day was through. _“Maybe I do, Gallagher, so what?”_

“So nothing.” Ian smiled at the walkie.

_“Yea well, good. I have to go now though, back to the grind ‘n’ shit.”_

“Okay,” Ian sighed softly, not hiding his amusement in the moment.

_“Tomorrow?”_

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

If Ian hadn’t jacked off in a long, long time, he was definitely making up for it now; but that was nobody’s business but his own; especially when he came in the dirt a few minutes later, the sun sparkling down between the stalks of corn above him, casting dancing shadows across his face, the distant silhouette of a bird high in the sky overhead as he rested against the earth.

~

DAY TWELVE

_“What colour are your eyes?”_ Mickey asked, sounding surer of himself than the day before, as if painting a picture of Ian in his head was bringing him some sense of peace.

Glancing up at the darkening sky as he swallowed a mouthful of soup from his chair on the back porch, Ian hoped that whatever rain may be moving in wouldn’t reach Mickey, and that it wouldn’t bring the Ghosts out of hiding sooner than they were meant to.

“Hard one to answer,” Ian admitted, chuckling softly into the slats, purposefully going for a hint of mystery.

_“You do have fuckin’ eyes, right?”_

The sound of his own laugh when it reached his belly never failed to make Ian feel real again.

“Yes, Mickey, I have _fuckin’_ eyes.”

_“So answer the question.”_

Ian shrugged.

“They’re green, I guess; maybe like a greeny-grey.”

 _“Oh so you’re proper Irish then. It’s not just the fuckin’ name and the hair…”_ Mickey snorted, the teasing tone making Ian flip the walkie the bird, which was something he’d never done before but for some reason felt right.

“Yes, I’m proper Irish.”

_“Shit, I can’t wait to see that…”_

~

DAY THIRTEEN

“That’s a weird question,” Ian laughed, feeling that last bit of nervousness disappear as Mickey came through on time, just as he was supposed to.

_“No it’s fuckin’ not!”_

“Well it is when you lead with it!”

_“You gunna answer it or not?”_

“Fine,” Ian huffed, digging absently through the basket of random shit in the bathroom, looking for the battery-powered hair clippers and the scissors.

It was fucking time.

_“I’m waiting, Ian.”_

“I’m thinking, _Mickey_.” When he finally located what he was looking for, Ian hauled them out, trying the switch on the clippers and not at all surprised to find them in need of new batteries. “I was fifteen I think,” he admitted then, but didn’t know whether he should feel good about it, or bad.

_“Oh yea?”_ Mickey sounded amused, so Ian decided to go with the former. _“Who was it?”_

Fuck. Ian tossed the clippers and scissors into the sink before strolling down the stairs.

“Umm, my boss?” Ian confessed, the words coming out way too much like a question – like he was just waiting for Mickey to judge him like everyone else had.

_“What?”_ Mickey’s voice was suddenly so flat and so quiet that he didn’t at all sound like he was judging; in fact, he sounded pissed, which Ian hadn’t expected.

“My boss,” Ian repeated; he had never understood why it was such a big deal.

_“Your first kiss was with your fucking **boss!**?” _Yea, Mickey was definitely not happy, which for some indiscernible reason only made Ian smile. _“How old was he!?”_

Ian shrugged when he reached the basement door, pulling it open before grabbing a flashlight from off the washer and flicking it on, aiming the beam down the steps as he descended.

“In his late thirties.”

_“Jesus Christ, Ian.”_

“It didn’t last,” he admitted, the memory of Kash’s face doing nothing more than filling him with a sense of longing – not for the man, but for the past.

_“Yea, good.”_

“Careful,” Ian smiled, finding the right batteries from his pile on the workbench and shoving them in his pocket before running back up the stairs, absently eyeing his handiwork from the week before to make sure the panel he had reinforced was still holding strong. “You sound a little jealous.”

_“Oh fuuuck off,”_ Mickey spat, but Ian was sure he could hear a hint of acknowledgement as he imagined Mickey flipping him the bird. _“I’m just pissed some pedo made you his bitch.”_

“I was old enough to take care of myself, Mick.”

_“Sure, whatever you say Cinderella.”_

The sudden reappearance of that term of endearment made Ian grin like an idiot – despite the turn in conversation – and when he finally returned to the bathroom, he emptied the old batteries out of the clippers with a feeling of warmth growing in his chest before sliding in the new ones.

“Glad we understand each other, Mouse.” Ian flicked the switch on the clippers then and smiled when they whirred to life. Absently, he eyed himself in the mirror, wondering just how well he could manage a shave and a proper haircut if he were actually trying to look decent for once…

_“I better go,”_ Mickey said abruptly – voice breaking quietly over the noise from the clippers – but it wasn’t as hopeful or as happy as the days before, which made Ian’s chest tighten and his growing warmth to ebb away a little.

_Was this actually getting to him?_

“Really Mickey,” Ian reiterated, because for some reason he felt suddenly like he needed to. “It was nothing,” 

_“Yea I know, it’s cool.”_

_It doesn’t feel cool,_ Ian wanted to say.

“Alright, talk to you tomorrow, then,” he sighed instead, and the line went dead without Mickey saying another word.

Combing separate sections of his damp hair out one by one, Ian cut a few inches off the ends, leaving him with a wavy mass of hair that sat loose against his head, just above his ears.

It had been years since he had had anything close to an actual haircut, and now that he actually wanted to try, it was proving way more difficult than he remembered.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his lingering frustration at Mickey’s reaction and lack of goodbye only serving to anger him as he tried to position the hand-held mirror behind his head with one hand and shave the back of his scalp with the clippers in the other.

Everything in the mirror in front of him was backwards, and he was going fucking crazy.

“How the fuck…” he spat under his breath, watching as he dragged the clippers from the back of his neck up to the edge of the hair he had tied up in a tiny ponytail, giving him some sort of guide to work with as he tried for some sort of apocalyptic fade.

When he finally reached the sides after what seemed like hours of struggling, he dropped the hand-held mirror with a sigh of relief, his hands moving quickly now that he could actually see what he was doing as more and more hair fell down onto the floor and into the sink, exposing his pale scalp.

By the time the back and the sides of his head were completely shaved down to a number one length, Ian released the tiny ponytail on top and went back to work. He pulled the longer hair up between his two fingers like he’d seen hairdressers do a thousand times before and snipped away the extra, until he was left with a surprisingly even mass that he slicked back with water, combing it into some semblance of a cut he had had as a teenager.

“Well fuck,” he huffed in amusement – after what must have been at least two hours – and smiled at his reflection as his hands came up and slid against his head, the prickly stubs of his hair scraping sweetly against his palms. “Not bad.”

Leaning back over the sink, Ian was completely aware of the tingle in his chest at the knowledge that he was doing all of this for a guy; but there was something more comforting underneath it, like he was also doing it for himself – like just the simple act of trying to feel better than he actually was healed him in some sort of way he couldn’t quite comprehend.

“You’re next,” he whispered, glancing at his beard in the mirror as he snapped on the number two blade guard before setting to work on his neck and his jaw, leaving just enough hair in place that he didn’t completely lose sight of who he now was.

~

DAY FOURTEEN

It had officially been a week since Mickey had left Minneapolis, and the deer was back on the front sidewalk as Ian sat on the porch in the cool shade of a cloud that hung low and large in the sky; he wanted to ask her if she was some harbinger of unrequited love – or if he should be worried about things that may one day dwell in the daylight – but instead, he waited impatiently for Mickey, who came through right on time, despite the way things had gone the day before.

_“Afternoon, Gallagher,”_ he crooned, that perfect cadence long and drawn out, making the doe’s ears twitch, as if she wasn’t quite sure of that unfamiliar voice.

“It’s okay,” Ian said to her, making sure he wasn’t holding the button down this time. “This is the guy I told you about.” Leaning himself back against the railing, Ian brought the walkie up to his mouth, the breeze against his freshly shaved head still an unfamiliar feeling. “Hey you,” he greeted, watching as the doe nosed her way along the edge of the grass towards his tiny corn field. “You’ll never guess who I’m talking to right now.”

_“Um, me?”_ Mickey sounded as if he thought Ian were a complete fucking idiot.

“Nope. Well yea, I guess but, the deer’s back.”

_“You mean dinner’s back…”_

Ian glanced up at the doe, as if worried she may take offence to that before he laughed too loud at Mickey’s words and she scurried off past the side of the house.

“Rude,” he scoffed, acting offended for her sake. “Though I did just laugh so hard I scared her.”

_“Rude.”_

“Shut up. So how are things?”

_“Good. Everything’s been quiet, which freaks me the fuck out but, there’s no dark places to really hide out here so, I guess it makes sense.”_

“Good. Do you know whereabouts you are?”

_“Uhh,”_ Mickey paused, and Ian imagined him glancing around, as if looking for a road sign _. “Just outside Madison.”_

The heart inside Ian’s chest that had been managing fairly well over the past week slammed suddenly against his ribs, the feeling so unexpected that it actually took Ian’s breath away.

Madison was only a two-and-a-half hour drive away; Ian remembered going there once with ROTC. That meant Mickey was right on schedule, and in a handful of days, Ian would be looking into his eyes…

Whatever breath _was_ left inside his lungs disappeared entirely.

“Shit ,Mickey! So you’ll be here in like, four days?”

_“Yea.”_ Mickey’s soft chuckle escaped through the slats, and it sounded like he couldn’t quite believe it, either. _“But I gotta get back on the road if I wanna keep up the pace so, I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”_

“Wait!” Ian sat up in the mid-day heat, the humidity growing as they pushed into what Ian assumed was early June. “You never asked me your question.”

_“Oh shit, right.”_ There was a silence for a second, and Ian grinned, picking absently at a thread on the frayed knee of his jeans. _“What’s your middle name?”_

A smile that was shy and timid pulled up the corners of Ian’s mouth, and if the deer had still been there to see it, Ian was sure she would have been embarrassed for the both of them.

“Clayton,” he answered at once, and kind of hoped Mickey didn’t ask where the name came from.

_“Well, Ian Clayton Gallagher, I guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”_

“No way,” Ian huffed, standing up so he could stretch his muscles as the cloud finally moved on and the rays of the sun nearly blinded him upon their return. “First you have to tell me yours.”

_“I don’t have to tell you anything!”_

“Mickey.”

_“Fine. It’s Aleksandr.”_

“Hot,” Ian replied, trying to make that word sound as stupidly seductive as Mickey did. “Talk to you tomorrow then, Mickey Aleksandr Milkovich.”

_“Mikhailo, actually,”_ Mickey said suddenly, and fuck, something about that set Ian’s insides on fire.

“Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich.” The words were like sugar and gold as they tumbled off his tongue.

_“Ian Clayton Gallgher.”_ It was so soft that goose bumps rippled Ian’s flesh despite the heat.

“Bye.”

_“Bye.”_

~

DAY FIFTEEN

“I haven’t done jack shit since you left; just trying to keep myself busy around the house,” Ian admitted as he straightened the living room for the hundredth time that week; maybe it was as stupid as cutting his hair but, if Mickey were going to see his home, he wanted it to look decent at least.

_“You don’t have to fuckin’ make anything nice for me or anything man,”_ Mickey snorted, always seeming to know exactly what Ian was up to. _“Ain’t like we don’t got bigger shit to worry about than some fuckin’ dust.”_

“No, I know,” Ian lied, clearing his throat in the mid-day quiet, nothing but the singing of birds from the dead power lines outside floating into his big little world. “But I had to make some room at least, there were fucking books and shit everywhere.”

_“I knew you were a nerd as soon as I heard your voice that first time.”_

“Oh fuck off.” Ian smiled to himself, dragging the broom around the floor and under the couch, a few missed pieces of glass from the panels on the door tinkling out into daylight.

_“If I fucked off, you’d probably cry,”_ Mickey joked, but Ian felt his face fall a little at the prospect.

“Of course I would.” No hint of teasing or joking made it into his words, causing the static to hiss out for a moment in answering as Mickey clearly took that statement in.

Ian scraped everything up into the dustpan as he waited, before carrying it out to the bin in the alley.

 _“Okay I thought hard about this question last night,”_ Mickey said eventually, sidestepping Ian’s last comment, much to his relief.

“Let’s hear it.”

_“If you could choose between having unending hot water again, or food that didn’t ever go bad, which would you choose?”_

“Fuuuck,” Ian hissed, snaking back through the kitchen and strolling over to the couch before proceeding to flop down into it, head falling back against the cushions.

“ _Hard, right?”_ Mickey sounded pleased with himself, and it made Ian’s butterflies reappear.

“Super hard. Umm..” Ian stopped and he thought; weighing out all the options in his head like this were a life or death scenario. “I think I’m gunna have to go with the hot water!” Ian was only a little surprised by his choice.

_“Fuck, really!?”_ Mickey sounded cheesed. _“I’d choose food any day of the week.”_

“Yea, _really_ ,” Ian mocked, his left hand coming up to trace absently over the bite mark on his other arm. “I dunno, I’ve gotten used to cooking and gardening and hunting and stuff. I don’t really miss all the other food because I’m never hungry, but fuck, I would kill for a hot shower, I swear to God.”

Their personal, perfect, comfortable silence returned to them then, and Ian basked in it, pretending it _was_ in fact hot water, washing him clean, letting him start anew.

_“Fair enough,”_ Mickey said finally, mouth full again before swallowing loudly. _“Alright, gotta hit the road, Jack.”_

Great, now that song was going to be stuck in Ian’s head all day, no matter how many new songs he listened to on his CD player, whose batteries had been replaced at least four times in the past week as he struggled to keep his mind occupied.

“Alright, be safe.”

_“Always.”_

“And hey, Mick?”

_“Mmm?”_

“I’ll see you soon.” Ian had never actually said it out loud, because he was sure he would jinx it; but now, it felt wrong not saying it, like not acknowledging the lengths Mickey was going to just to get to him was some sort of cardinal sin.

_“Speaking of…”_

“What?” Ian sat up, intrigued by the happiness in Mickey’s tone.

_“I was thinking I should be in Chicago in three days. What if I meet you at the Navy Pier at noon?”_

Meeting Mickey at the Navy Pier; Ian was sure he had dreamt about that once, except the world had been a bright, sunny place, and he had had his arm around Mickey’s shoulder as they walked towards the Ferris wheel with cotton candy in their hands, the sound of children echoing out around them.

Ian’s heart slammed harder, the smile on his face becoming a semi-permanent fixture.

“Yea, okay.”

 _“Okay,”_ Mickey said, the word so quiet that Ian wondered if Mickey had dreamt of it, too. _“So not tomorrow, not the next day, but the next day, alright?”_

Ian grinned up at the ceiling above him, water-stained and fading.

“Got it. See you in three days, Mickey.”

_“It’s a date.”_

The line cut out before Ian even had time to process those final words, and he was left looking up into nothing, his heart leaving his body with the butterflies and the hope and the sunlight and the deer and whatever the fuck had kept him going as it all floated up, up into the sky together and drifted northwest on the wind, to wherever a black-haired, blue-eyed stranger was waiting.

~

DAY SIXTEEN

Mickey didn’t come through.

Glancing at his watch for the hundredth time, Ian watched as the time shifted to one o’clock exactly, his feet tearing up the grass in the back yard as he paced, and he paced, the bile rising deep within his guts.

“Come on, Mickey,” he sighed to himself again, the words coming now without him even meaning them too. “Come on.”

Looking up towards the sky, Ian closed his eyes, trying to keep the panic attack he knew was building at bay; his chest was tightening as thoughts raced through his head at a speed he had never known, and every single one of them was of Mickey, out there somewhere – somewhere Ian would never be able to get to on his own.

“Mickey?” Ian tried again, bringing the walkie up to his mouth. “Mickey, don’t fucking do this to me.” Tears were stinging the backs of his eyes, but reason and logic were inside him somewhere, trying to win out.

_He probably ran out of batteries,_ Lip said in his head, as Ian brought his hands back up to brush along the stunted hairs at the sides of his scalp.

“No, he brought extra batteries.” Ian felt his breaths turn into gulps at that, his eyes squeezing further shut as he gripped the longer hair still at the top of his head.

_Stop panicking,_ Lip chuckled, and something about the easiness of it made Ian’s eyes reopen, allowing the sun to penetrate his darkness.

“I’m trying, Lip.”

_Everything is fine. You saw one of those fuckers out in the day, maybe Mickey did, too, and he’s being cautious._

Nodding at nothing, Ian counted his breathing. In, then out. In. Out.

_Or maybe he fucked up his walkie, who knows._

“You’re right.”

_Always was._

“Shut up,” Ian actually smiled a little, the tightness easing, but only a little.

_Now go look at his picture and wait it out, Ian. Try again tomorrow._

“What if…”

_Stop_ , Lip cut him off because he could, and not for the first time Ian wondered if Mickey would be able to handle whatever type of crazy he was. _There are a million things it could be,_ Lip added, Ian’s brain trying to reason with itself. _Just go do something._

“Okay.” Ian took another breath, and another, the warm air expanding his lungs, making his head clearer. “Your name is Ian Gallagher,” he said to himself, the first time those words had left his lips in a while. “You live at 2119 South Wallace in South Side, and Mickey is on his way to get you.”

~

DAY SEVENTEEN

Nothing. Not a whisper of a word or a sigh came over the walkie. Ian hadn’t turned it off once since the day before, and he hadn’t slept; instead he’d stayed up in the quiet of the night, staring into the black, just waiting for it to turn into something real and swallow him whole.

Now, Ian was lying on his side in his bed, watching that very dust that only days before had made him feel like a cosmic giant. Now however, Ian felt so small that he was sure he could live on one of those very specks, and be content to just float around for the rest of eternity and do absolutely nothing until he finally fucking died.

“Mickey?” he tried again, a whimper that sounded unfamiliar and weak, not at all like himself. Ian wasn’t sure he even _was_ himself anymore; he was a stranger.

Nothing but static came back to him in the late afternoon heat.

It was well past three o’clock, and the pillow below Ian’s head was soaked with tears he hadn’t even known were falling. Ian was simply numb, far too tired now to even panic.

“Please,” he whispered to the slats, trying with everything he had not to turn over and glance at the tiny picture that was now burning a hole into both his back and his heart.

_Ian?_ Fiona said this time, that maternal voice of reason and love echoing around his head, making him fall apart there in the silence.

“Where is he?” he cried, pulling his knees up to his chest as a cold he hadn’t really known before chilled the furthest reaches of his body.

_It’s okay, Sweetface,_ she soothed, and Ian could almost feel her hand on his back, rubbing circles around and around, just like she’d done when he was little and sad.

“Why does this always happen?” Ian held the walkie closer to his heart, willing Mickey to live there forever if he was in fact, gone.

_Why does what always happen?_

“Why does everybody leave me?”

A bird landed suddenly on his windowsill then, its tiny beak pecking the glass like it was trying to get his attention, or trying to get in; if it were any other day, Ian may have opened the window and let it look around, but now he was sure that if he did, the bird would just disappear, too.

_It’s never on purpose,_ Fiona admitted, and of course it was true, but Ian was far too gone to really see that.

“Feels like it.”

_Just go tomorrow anyways, Ian. He might still show…_

Sniffing loudly in the quiet, Ian rubbed the back of his hand over his nose – feeling the moisture on his face from tears and whatever else – and stared at the bird, its tiny form blurry and misshapen from the tears resting in his eyes.

“Yea,” he whispered eventually, taking one deep breath before finally finding the nerve to roll over, his eyes closing before he could see Mickey’s teenage face staring back at him from his place on the table. “Yea, maybe.”

_He’ll come, Ian,_ his sister added, her voice so calm and reassuring that Ian thought maybe he believed her.

Opening his eyes slowly, Ian aimed them downwards first, taking in the sight of his doorway before slowly raking them up to pass over the floor, his shelves, the edge of the messy bed, and then finally, Mickey.

Blue eyes were right where he’d left them, that intense gaze so searing and unending that it made the tears stop falling, like just the sight of him flicked a switch somewhere so deep inside himself that Ian didn’t even know it existed. Mickey was stubborn; Ian knew _that_ from nothing more than the sound of him – from the plethora of words that had tumbled from his lips for nearly three weeks straight.

If anyone could make it, Ian thought it would be Mickey.

“Okay,” he breathed into the quiet, his chest loosening as his tiny spark sputtered in the ashes. “Okay, I’ll go.”

_Good._

Despite the infinite feeling of aloneness that had consumed him for the past two days – dragging him down into a pit of despair that he hadn’t been in for nearly two years – Ian thought he felt that tiny spark reignite then into something greater as he looked at Mickey there in the afternoon heat, his body suddenly so warm that the cold that had been numbing him was long forgotten, and he was suddenly determined to get to the godforsaken pier, just so he could prove to himself that the world wasn’t actually out to get him, and that Mickey was everything Ian thought he was.

~

DAY EIGHTEEN

Ian was up at dawn, not a single hint of a dream or a memory on the edges of his mind; he must have just been too tired to remember, and he wondered if his subconscious was just giving him a break, because his waking life had been enough of a nightmare already.

The sun was bursting pink across the sky as he stepped out onto the front porch, rechecking that his gun was holstered safely across his chest before slinging his backpack higher onto his shoulders, the weight of it oddly comforting against his spine.

Some time in the night, he had managed to finally fall asleep in the dark – the silent walkie-talkie still gripped in his hands as Mickey’s face faded from view as the night overtook them – and Ian actually felt somewhat rested as he looked down at himself one final time, making sure there was no dust on his freshly washed black jeans, and that the white t-shirt he had grabbed from Old Navy a few days before was crisp. If Mickey showed…

_No,_ Ian thought, his throat going dry in the cool morning air. **_When_** _Mickey shows…_

…when Mickey showed, he wanted to look like he had his whole, tiny, miserable, perfectly imperfect life together, and not at all like he had mastered the art of crying himself to sleep.

Doing up the zipper on his brown leather jacket to the cold, Ian took one final breath before strolling down the steps and out into the hopeful unknown, rechecking his waist to ensure there were extra clips for his gun, just in case, and not a single thought was in his head as he did so; it was blank, completely empty of anything that may make him… _feel_.

~

By the time he reached the edge of downtown – up above the ground on the raised tracks of the El – Ian was sweating, the late-morning sun beating down on him from above, warming him even though that feeling of cold had returned to his bones.

Ian’s heartbeat had increased with every step he took – every step that was hopefully taking him closer to Mickey – and he realized absently that the sweat on his palms and the sweat on the back of his neck had nothing at all to do with the heat.

Glancing skywards, Ian watched that murmuration of starlings float in its dancing cloud, undulating and moving like it was a single, living, breathing thing before disappearing from sight on the wind.

Music was blasting in his ears from his earbuds, the cord snapping against his chest as he walked, his now open coat allowing that same breeze to cool his damp skin.

“Be there, Mickey,” he whispered to himself, not for the first time as he pushed his way further north. “Just fucking be there.”

Ian’s chest and his head were still empty of any and all feeling or thoughts as he took the steps at the Washington/Wabash station two at a time before weaving his way through the idle, abandoned cars like a zombie. The long-forgotten vehicles had even more dust and pollen on them than they had the last time Ian had been there only a few weeks before.

Every dim, shaded place on the ground caused Ian’s eyes to drift sideways, as if he half-expected so see a Ghost there in the grey shadows, clouded eyes staring out at him as they sat mesmerized and frozen by the sun; but every time, Ian was relieved to see he was alone.

_Not alone_ , he reminded himself, shaking the notion from his head. _Mickey will be there._

The weeds and plants were taller now, and they scraped at his thighs as he crossed over the clear Chicago river on the bridge at North Wabash avenue – the same bridge he had knelt on last time, walkie-talkie held tight in his hands as he called out for someone, completely unaware that out there, a dark-haired stranger had been listening.

When Ian reached the Navy Pier, he looked at his watch; it was _12:_ 07\. Seven minutes past the time they were supposed to meet.

Automatically, Ian raised his sights and scanned the pier, looking for any sort of movement or sound amongst the call of the gulls above him – looking for a flash of that same dark hair, or the sparkle from blue eyes that would actually be impossible to see from a distance.

Heart hammering now with a rancid mix of fear and excitement, Ian hopped the military barricade and ran, the breeze off Lake Michigan that sat lapping all around him cooling him in a way he was thankful for.

“Mickey!?” he yelled out, tearing the earbuds from his ears as he jogged past the empty restaurants and empty tables and empty chairs – eyes darting, drifting, searching – and he hoped he wouldn’t be just another empty thing for much longer, either. “ _Mickey!?_ ”

Nothing.

The Navy Frigate still sat moored to the far end of the pier, barely moving in the still waters. As Ian approached it – as he ran past the Festival Hall and the Aon Grand Ballroom, knowing what horrors lay inside – his heart began to slow and fear began to return tenfold.

“Hey, _MICKEY!?_ ” Ian screamed, throat burning as he turned around and eyed the entirety of the pier laid out behind him, nearly tripping over a bench as he did so.

Nobody was there; nobody was hopping over the barricade at the other end; nobody was coming out from the shadows or out from the doors that lead inside…

“Fuck,” Ian panted, hands finding his head again to grip tightly onto his hair as the panic he had been holding inside crashed down into him with enough force that he actually fell backwards, sinking down onto his ass for all that remained of the world to see. “Fuck fuck _fuck FUCK!_ ” he screamed, a crescendo of rage and betrayal coursing through him as he pulled his hair so hard pain radiated into his skull.

_Breathe,_ Lip tried to tell him – his mind tried to tell him – but he could no longer hear them.

You can’t hear anything when you realize you’re alone.

Ian knew.

Chest tightening, he gulped for air, tasting the water on the breeze as it tried to drift into his lungs, but they were closing in around him, not letting anything in, like they no longer wanted to keep him alive – like they wanted him to die.

For the first time since the day he saw the bear, that sounded like an okay plan to Ian.

“Do it,” he wheezed, willing his lungs to finally just fail him completely and finish the job; but instead of complying, they eased back a little, allowing a breath to fill his chest as his heart beat so hard against his ribs he was sure they were going to crack. “Your name is Ian Gallagher,” he hissed out of instinct, no longer even caring if it worked. “You live at 2119 South Wallace in South Side, and Mickey isn’t fucking coming.”

Tears stung the backs of his eyes, but they didn’t fall; he was all cried out, and he had nothing left to give.

_Give it a minute,_ Fiona said then, that fucking voice never failing to calm him jus the smallest bit, even though he was fighting against it; he didn’t want to let the calm win – he wanted his panic to win; he wanted the dark to win…

Ian glanced back at his watch, hands shaking so hard he could barely read its face.

_12:15_

“Okay okay okay,” he panted at his sister, voice trembling as his hand found his chest again, pushing the cold weight of his Sig Saur against his ribs, and Ian could actually feel his heart thumping through the steel.

Waiting.

Ian could wait.

He had waited years for this.

Ian could be patient for a little while longer…

but as his breathing continued to stutter and squeeze as his darkness closed in – eating away at the light – he honestly didn’t know for how long.

At 1:00pm Ian was breathing again, though the sweat on his brow had begun to drip down his face in the heat; so he shrugged his backpack off behind him and pulled off his jacket, his eyes never leaving the far end of the pier as he watched, and he waited.

At 2:00pm Ian’s ankles were crossed while his knees sat pulled up in front of him, his forearms wrapped around them, holding them up as the seagulls landed on the edge of the water, looking at him as if he were nothing more than a piece of the cement beneath his feet – an out-of-place, jagged piece that had grown up from the stone and threatened to stay there forever.

At 3:00pm Ian realized he had been staring at that barricade for so long his eyes were stinging from dryness, and the tingling in his legs was numbing his limbs; but nothing compared to the numbness in his chest, and in his heart. There was no longer any feeling, there was just _being_ ; there was just him, breathing, looking, not thinking, not caring, just…being.

At 4:00pm Ian felt himself smile at nothing, the slow realization of what was coming taking root somewhere inside him, and he didn’t fear it, he welcomed it. He welcomed it with open arms that had been intended for his dark-haired stranger, and when the time finally came, he knew he’d be able to do it, especially as the sound of the waves biting at the pier and at the shore echoed out around him, and he finally closed his eyes to the echoes of a life that wouldn’t miss him when he was gone.

At 5:00pm Ian finally reopened his eyes, and he had had enough of this life. He stood, grabbing his gun from his holster and flipping off the safety, glancing at it in the slowly sinking sun – feeling the weight in his hand as he considered.

“I told you,” he said to nobody, but this time, nobody answered. Ian lifted his gaze at the sudden silence, catching sight of Willis Tower looming tall and distant overhead, the darkened square of the shot-out windowpane standing out amongst the glowing glass all around it like a beacon calling his name.

“Okay,” he whispered, taking it as some sort of cosmic sign as he reholstered his gun before shrugging back into his jacket and picking his bag up from off the ground.

Setting his jaw in a determination he’d never quite known before, Ian strolled purposefully back the way he’d come, not seeing a point in ever looking back.

“Okay.”

Every step was like torture. Every step up to the viewing deck made a memory flash in Ian’s mind; but instead of fighting it, this time he let them in, like this final ascent was his own, fucked up version of his life flashing before his eyes.

Lip and him smoking in the van out back.

Liam asleep in his crib.

Carl microwaving a GI Joe Ian had given him.

Debbie colouring Ian’s hair red with crayons on the back of his homework.

Fiona. Always Fiona, doing everything.

2,109 steps.

2,109 memories that would never be enough.

When he finally reached the top – legs burning, chest heaving – Ian looked out at the Lake through the busted pane – it’s calm, cooling blue reminding him of eyes he would never get to see in person – and knew he was making the right choice.

It was time.

Setting his bag down onto the floor, Ian opened it slowly, a calmness settling over him that made his movements gentle and considerate, as if his body somehow knew this was the last time it would be able to do what it had been made to do.

The evening sun was shining gold, turning everything around him into a cathedral of light that Ian wondered at, like maybe the Heavens or whatever was out there – if anything – were already waiting, gates open, flooding him with the love he had been missing for so fucking long.

The walkie was sitting at the top inside his backpack, so Ian pulled it out, flipping it on one last time, triple checking to make sure it was on channel fifteen before he pressed the button down in one last ditch effort that he already knew would fail.

“Mickey?” he whispered into the white noise, and he heard the fragility of his own voice. “Mickey, you there?”

No sounds came back through, so Ian nodded in acceptance, leaving the walkie on as he set in on the floor, letting that comforting static hiss out around him and envelop him in that same blanket of peace it had been wrapping him in since day one.

Reaching back inside his bag, Ian pulled out a chocolate bar; it was the only other thing in there besides his CD player, a few extra gun clips, a sweater, and his lantern. Ian hadn’t brought any pictures; he didn’t think he’d need them if it came to this; they were seared into his mind forever, and when he closed his eyes for the last time, he knew they’d be all he saw anyways.

“Saved the best for last,” he whispered to the chocolate he twirled around in his fingers, and smiled again, for some reason he didn’t quite understand.

Maybe it was just contentment. Maybe he was smiling at nothing more than the knowledge that he was no longer going to have to struggle – that he was no longer going to have to care so much about being alone.

Tearing off the end of the wrapper, Ian turned and sat back against the wall, staring out through the shattered glass at the horizon as he bit into the one thing he had been saving for a special day, and the burst of sweetness on his tongue made that smile widen, nearly splitting his face in two as he chewed, swallowed, repeated, and counted down the seconds in the static of the walkie, heart steady and unwavering in his chest, even though his body was shaking without him meaning it to.

Ian stood on the ledge, the burning rays of the fading sun warming him in all the ways a searing star on the edge of eternity could; for one of the only times Ian could remember, the air was suddenly still and stagnant, not a single whisper of wind making its way over Lake Michigan, like the whole of the world had stopped and was simply waiting for him.

 _Don’t._ Lip said suddenly, that perfect cadence ringing out like it was on a loudspeaker in Ian’s mind, and he actually hesitated for the first time then – wavered slightly on the precipice of nothing.

“I have to,” Ian whispered, his voice trembling now with the smallest hint of fear even though his body had stopped its shaking entirely.

_No. You don’t._

“What if he wasn’t even real in the first place?” Ian asked then, that same worry coming up again without him meaning it to.

_You have his picture, Ian. That’s real._

“I saw you the other day, too. That wasn’t.”

_Stop._

“I can’t, Lip.” Ian watched that same, distant flock of seagulls as it circled over the Pier, keeping watch over the place Ian had been meant to meet Mickey. _Mickey_. “I can’t do this anymore.”

 _You can_. The voice came so suddenly and unexpectedly that Ian actually took a step back at the sound, his breath catching in his throat as he choked on a sob and the abrupt return of tears to his eyes cast rainbows across his vision.

It hadn’t been Lip’s voice that time; it’d been Mickey’s.

“Mickey?” Ian breathed, and the name on his tongue was like sugar, even though his insides turned to acid.

Ian had only ever heard the voices of the dead.

_Yea, it’s me Gallagher. Don’t even fuckin’ think about it._

Ian wanted to laugh and he wanted to cry harder; he wanted to obey, because whatever Mickey told him to do, he usually did without even meaning to; but this time, it only pushed Ian forward, and maybe it was stupid, he thought, but a part of him wondered if he’d get to see Mickey yet, in some sort of life that came after.

After everything.

After all of this.

“Were you even real?” The question stuck in his throat, and he realized absently he was more afraid of that question than anything.

_What kind of dumb fucking question is that?_

“Then why didn’t you come?” Ian asked, a whimper in the quiet as he took a step forward, eyeing the ground below, which only made his chest tighten and his fists clench involuntarily. “Why weren’t you there, Mick?”

_I’m here, Ian._

“Yea. Too late.” 

_Ian. I’m here._

“I know, Mick.” Ian took a breath and looked straight ahead, watching the blue of the water become one with the blue of the sky, and wondered if it would all merge into a pair of blue eyes on his way down.

_“Ian? I’m here.”_ Mickey repeated, and Ian wanted to hear that voice until the end.

“Good. Don’t go anywhere okay?” Ian closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of that very sun, and let it fill the last of the dark places left within him as he stepped off…

_“Ian! Man, I’m sorry. Are you there? Fuck, tell me you’re there.”_

Ian whirled at the last minute, that familiar burst of static after those words finally catching his attention, and his heart fucking soared up, up into those awaiting Heavens; but it was too late; his foot slipped off the edge, and his body was going down, down…

“Fuck!” Ian screamed, that final action of turning at the sound of Mickey’s voice allowing him to fall onto the ledge on his stomach, legs dangling off into oblivion.

If Ian had thought he’d known fear before, he was wrong; his heart all but seized and stopped entirely, his hands suddenly shaking and sweating as the image of all the space between him and the earth crowded his mind and he gripped his palms hard to the floor, letting his arms lock in place as his stomach turned over in roiling waves of nauseous panic.

_“Ian? Come on, man.”_ It was Mickey, and at the sound of his voice Ian looked up, eyes focused on the walkie as the wind suddenly picked back up and his breathing hitched as his body shifted slightly in the breeze.

“Fuck Ian, come on!” he yelled at himself, trying to focus past the panic, past the nausea and the cold tingling his limbs, willing his body to fucking _do something_. “ _Come on!_ ”

Focusing past the panic, that’s what he learned to do best.

Using all of his strength and not once even thinking about looking down, Ian began shuffling himself forward on the tiled floor, imagining he was simply hanging off the monkey bars at the school, the ground simply a few feet below.

“Fucking pull, Ian!” he heaved, words straining as he finally shifted his arms, the sweat on his palms making him slip a little, but he gripped, and he fucking gripped…

_“Ian, I’ll keep this walkie on all fucking night, man…”_

“I’m coming,” Ian huffed, finally getting his waist far enough up the lip of the precipice that he could lift his body and crawl forward, legs scraping hard against the steel edge as he dragged himself up in to safety. “I’m coming, Mickey.”

Without even pausing for a breath or to focus on what the fuck was happening, Ian crawled across the floor, scooping the walkie up into his hands with a sudden wave of relief that crashed through him like a fucking atom bomb, taking with it every single bad thought or thing Ian had ever known and blasting it apart into nothing.

“Mickey!?” he half-laughed, half-cried, that very smile he never thought he’d have again pulling his lips up into euphoria. “Fuck, Mickey…”

_“Ian! Shit, man, I’m sorry!”_ Mickey breathed, and Ian thought it sounded like he was crying – like he knew what Ian would be feeling.

Of course he did.

Going from everything, to nothing.

It could end you.

“It’s okay,” Ian said, and it was fucking true – now, in that moment, Ian knew it was true.

_“I fucked my walkie,”_ Mickey admitted, that worried tone turning to one of unadulterated joy. _“It took longer getting here than I thought it would. Fuck. I fucked my walkie and couldn’t find another until I reached the city. Shit, I fuckin’ ran, man. But I’m here though, Ian. I said it was a date and I’m here. I’m at the pier.”_

Before Ian knew it, he was out in the sun, his feet hitting the pavement in a way that made his bones shake and his teeth rattle, but he was smiling through every panting breath, and he was sure that whatever shadows laid between himself and Mickey would be cast out by nothing more than the way he soared like a bird, lit up from within as he nearly touched the sun, flying towards the water’s edge as he made his way to the pier – as he made his way to the man that had saved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two songs for this week's chapter:  
> Home by Aron Wright (this is for Ian at every moment up until the end.)  
> Gallow's Pole by Willie Watson (when Ian's saved by his dark-haired stranger.)


	6. Life At the Edge of the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, all it takes is a look to remind you you're still alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter. It was originally a bit longer, but I cut it down because I just thought this was perfect and needed to be its own entity. They deserve that.

DAY EIGHTEEN

If Ian thought he had known adrenaline and nervousness while he was hanging off the side of a building – just waiting to fall to his death here at the end of the world – well, he had been wrong; because now, as Ian stood frozen at the barricade – chest heaving deep breaths as he stared down the length of the pier – those feelings were back tenfold. The heart within his chest was slamming against his ribs, creating a rhythm inside his body that pulsed at the edges of his vision as the slowly setting sun cast a golden tone out around him, lighting the sky to fire and making every day of the past two years fade into almost nothingness.

The world was even quieter than it had been, the gulls having disappeared to wherever it was they went to sleep in the darkness, and all that whispered into Ian’s ears was the gentle lapping of waves.

Raking his eyes over the horizon, Ian wiped at the sweat pooling at the nape of his neck, barely registering how warm he actually was as he took a single, deep, calming breath before finally finding his strength again and hopping over the barricade on ridiculously shaky legs. As far as Ian could see, the place looked just as empty, too; but somewhere – here amongst the leftovers – was Mickey. Ian knew it. He didn’t just know it because Mickey had told him he was there, he knew it somewhere deep within the marrow of his bones and in his soul, like the quiet was somehow even quieter – like the sun was even brighter – as if the world was once more standing still – just as it had been up on that ledge –simply waiting for something to happen.

Waiting for worlds to collide.

Under him, Ian’s feet were heavy and slow as they pushed him forward towards the frigate, his eyes continuously catching every tiny hint of movement as the breeze shifted a leaf, or the sunlight caught a wave just right. Ian was fully aware that he was searching, desperately – waiting impatiently for that one shift in shadow that would stop his momentum entirely, his eyes finally landing on _someone_ who would send his walls cascading down around him. More than anything, though, Ian was nervous; and he felt the flush rise in his cheeks then as he swallowed, hearing the way his breath was trembling in his throat as his expectations began to falter at the feeling of aloneness when his eyes continued to land on absolutely nobody.

Looking down at his hands, Ian saw that they were shaking, too – just like his legs – and in his ears – just under the sound of the lake – was the rushing of his blood.

Despite it, he kept going, hoping more than this life should probably allow that somewhere between here and there – there at the edge of the water – he would find everything he hadn’t known he’d been waiting for.

Halfway down the pier, just as Ian was trying not to re-convince himself that everything _had_ in fact been a figment of his imagination and he was more fucked than he’d ever even realized – as that cool sweat began to work its way out onto his forehead and make his stomach roil with nausea – Mickey stood up from where he was crouched beside an empty truck, his back turned towards Ian as if he wasn’t even aware of his presence.

Ian stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth going instantly dry, his heart seizing to function entirely as his eyes landed on the golden outlines of Mickey’s body, the sun casting him in light like some angel of saving grace; which he was, he just didn’t know it yet.

A sound escaped Ian’s chest then against his will, and he wasn’t sure if it was a sob, a calming breath, or a sigh of relief; whatever it was though, it was enough.

Mickey turned suddenly at the sound, and when their eyes met then – Mickey’s just as wide and searching as Ian was sure his own were – Ian nearly forgot that the world was a vastly different place; and he nearly forgot that _he_ was a vastly different person.

He nearly forgot everything.

Mickey’s hair was longer now, the black strands reaching almost to his shoulders from where they escaped from beneath a dark blue beanie, and there was a dusting of stubble on his angled jaw that matched. Ian didn’t know why he had been expecting the teenager from the photo on his bedside table, but the man in front of him was clearly just as far from the person he used to be, too.

Of course he was.

All softness around his edges were gone, and when Mickey glanced away then – like he was too nervous to keep staring – he lifted a thumb, scratching it absently over his eyebrow in a nervous tick Ian was already overjoyed to get to witness; and as he watched – completely enraptured and unwilling to look anywhere else – Ian caught sight of the hands he had dreamed about: rough, scarred, and inked with words that set his insides on fire without so much as even a touch.

“Uhh, hey,” Mickey whispered suddenly, that familiar cadence pulling Ian from his reverie at once as Mickey peered back up at him through dark lashes, and when Ian heard him then – when he heard that voice unhindered by static or distance – and when he saw his eyes again – bluer than anything his mind could have conjured up – he could do absolutely nothing; he simply stared back, his heart jack-hammering so loudly within him that he was sure it was doing the talking for him.

_Hey._

Two years with nothing – with nobody – and there it was: _hey_.

It was like a swift punch to the gut, and whatever air was left inside Ian’s lungs left him entirely.

It was so simple; but so inexplicably, profoundly complicated.

It was everything.

In one word.

In one person.

“Hi,” Ian breathed finally, the word so unexpected and quiet that Ian wasn’t sure it would make it to Mickey’s ears over the breeze; but those dark eyebrows flickered then with the hint of recognition as he clearly heard it, the rigid uncertainty in his face falling away a little to reveal something Ian immediately recognized: it was the same look he had seen in the mirror a few days before…

It was his soul shining through, and it was beautiful.

Their gazes stayed locked onto each other like magnets, and despite the heat that crawled its way up Ian’s chest as Mickey looked at him – despite the flush that climbed up his neck and over his cheeks – Ian knew that gaze had absolutely nothing to do with longing or feelings or _deer symbolism_ of unrequited love; no, that gaze was the gaze of two people who hadn’t laid eyes on another human being for longer than either of them cared to remember – it was the gaze of two people who had been certain that they never would lay eyes on _anyone_ ever again.

That was something no words could ever do justice.

“Fuck,” Mickey huffed suddenly, the word saying more than any others ever could as he broke eye contact then and took a step back, widening the space between them; the action jolted Ian back to the present, and he felt a little colder at Mickey’s sudden distance. He watched those blue eyes look back at him for just a moment then – soft, unreadable – before they lifted upwards to glance at the sky. “We should probably go,” Mickey observed, and that voice was something Ian didn’t think he’d ever get tired of hearing.

Unlike when he’d heard it over the radio however, Ian found that now, there was an awkward tension that came with it, settling around them like fog. Gone was the easiness they had found over wavelengths for weeks, and all that was left was wondering just where the fuck he should be looking. Ian was staring for too long, he knew it; and Mickey was trying to look anywhere but at Ian; so instinctively, Ian took his own step backwards, widening the space between them further in hopes of satiating Mickey, causing him to nearly trip clumsily over the bumper of the truck.

Fuck, he just needed to ground himself; so he laid his hand on the back of his neck and squeezed it, following Mickey’s gaze upwards to the slowly darkening sky. It was too late to go anywhere now, and the realization sent a jolt of panic out into Ian’s nerves.

“Shit,” he cursed, the word coming out without him meaning it to. “We’re not gunna be able to make it home, but I have a place nearby if…” Ian trailed off when his eyes found Mickey’s again, and he was sure his own face went an unbelievable shade of red as he realized there was the distinct feeling of _something_ that reared its head every time they looked at each other.

Then again, it looked like maybe Mickey’s face had the faintest shade of blush to it, too…

“If what?” Mickey turned away again – like it was all he could do to keep himself sane – and reached down, hauling a massive backpack that was nearly as big as he was up from off the ground and swinging it onto his shoulders, an M4 Carbine rifle strapped to the outside that was almost identical to Ian’s.

_Pull yourself together, man,_ Lip’s voice said suddenly, and Ian had to chew on his lip to keep from reacting.

“If umm,” Ian continued, glancing quickly at Willis Tower in the distance. “If you don’t mind taking a lot of fucking stairs…” Ian smiled then – for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime – and let that particular swear word fall out naturally, blatantly trying to rediscover that easiness that had always belonged to them.

Ian couldn’t’ be sure, but he thought he saw the corner of Mickey’s mouth twitch upwards for a split second before he followed Ian’s gaze towards the tall towers behind them, his dark brows coming together in a look of uneasiness that Ian was all too familiar with.

“It’s here?” Mickey asked, voice unsure. “In the city?”

Mickey knew just as well as Ian did what dwelled inside the shadows there, and there was no point in sugar coating it.

“Yea but, it’s been cleared and it’s safe,” Ian confessed, trying not to think any more about Lip. “I stay here when I have to come downtown for supplies and shit....”

“But it’s a lot of fucking stairs?” Mickey eyed him again, that small smile tugging once more at the corner of lips Ian only now realized were much too soft looking for the man in front of him.

“It’s a lot of fucking stairs,” Ian confirmed, his own face splitting into a wide grin as he motioned to Mickey’s massive backpack. “As long as you don’t mind carrying that fuckin’ beast?”

“Nah man,” Mickey chuckled, that same sound that had grounded Ian from afar escaping his chest as his eyes darted away, like looking at Ian for too long was seriously becoming a burden. “I don’t mind.” Mickey scratched at his eyebrow again then before turning abruptly and heading back towards downtown, and Ian had to work hard to hold back the butterflies that flapped wildly in his chest at the discovery of Mickey’s very first tell – at finding a tick that made Mickey who he was in person.

After a moment of watching Mickey walk away – of watching the way his black tactical pants with built-in knee-pads shifted perfectly over thighs that Ian only now realized were unbelievably thick – Ian snapped himself out of whatever haze he was in an jogged after him, slowing to a stop and falling in step beside him.

It was so quiet then that all Ian could hear was their feet on the ground, the soft shuffling of things inside Mickey’s backpack as he moved, and their shy, uneven breathing. All he wanted to do was keep looking at his dark haired stranger, just so he could continue finding all the little things that made Mickey who he was – all the little things that made Mickey _real_.

That was all he wanted to do, and because of it, he had no idea what the fuck he was supposed to _say_.

“So umm,” he started anyways, hoping _something_ would come to him as he glanced quickly at Mickey out of the corner of his eye, smiling a little at the way Mickey’s hair shifted against the whiter skin of his neck, making his heart pound harder in his battered ribs. “What happened?”

It was the best he could come up with, and he hoped Mickey knew what he meant.

They came to the barricade then, and Ian watched as Mickey just shrugged carelessly before hopping over it, the distinct sounds of soup cans banging together echoing out from inside his backpack, and Ian smiled wider when Mickey wasn’t looking, wondering absently if they were all vegetable.

“Fucked my walkie,” Mickey sighed, intense gaze landing back on Ian then as he stood there and waited.

Taking the hint, Ian cleared the barricade in a single stride, and although Ian wasn’t trying to pay too much attention when Mickey’s eyes were on him, he thought he saw Mickey’s gaze drift over him from head to toe – like he was drinking him in – which only made his butterflies flap even more chaotically, threatening to burst free and carry him away completely.

“Yea,” Ian snorted, trying not to look long at him, but fuck, all he wanted to do was _look._ “You said that on the radio. What happened?” Turning south, Ian headed into the darkening streets, motioning for Mickey to follow as he cast his eyes upwards out of habit, scanning over the glass windows as they sparkled back the last lingering light of day.

They looked appealing, but behind them was madness.

“It was fuckin’ stupid man.” Mickey laughed from beside him, that glorious sound causing Ian’s eyes to find him once more, and fuck it, Ian didn’t think he’d be able to stop looking at him for a long, long time; mostly because he was still positive that if he looked away for a moment too long, Mickey would surely disappear.

“Why? What’d you do?”

“I dropped it in a lake.” The bitter, annoyed tone in Mickey’s voice wasn’t lost on Ian, but despite it, he snorted; he couldn’t help it.

“You dropped it. In a lake.” Ian sucked his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from full on laughing in Mickey’s face, and Mickey must have noticed, because he shot daggers at Ian then, his clear, azure eyes shining with something like feigned annoyance.

For some reason, in that exact moment, the full weight of just how much Ian had actually _missed_ this – missed _being_ with someone – came crashing down into him like a falling star, nearly knocking him right off his feet at just how easy it was.

Maybe though, that was only because of who it was he was talking to.

“Do you know how gross you get walkin’ day after day carryin’ this fuckin’ thing?” Mickey spat, pointing to his backpack before scratching his nose to hide a smile, Ian was sure. “I needed a bath man, fuck. Lake was the closest I was gunna get.”

Rubbing his hand over the sides of his freshly shaved head, Ian didn’t let himself wonder if the bath and getting clean had anything to do with their impending meeting…

“Well, it didn’t help,” he teased instead, the inclination to jest coming out of nowhere as he wrinkled his nose up – like the smell of Mickey alone repulsed him – but he nearly failed with his charade entirely when Mickey stopped dead in his tracks and looked back at him with raised eyebrows, as if he couldn’t quite believe the balls on Ian.

“That how it’s gunna be?” Mickey asked, biting into his bottom lip before letting a sarcastic smile creep up his face, and Ian couldn’t stop _looking_ – at that mouth, those eyes, that _person_ …

“Well it’s either that, or let this be awkward as fuck for….” That sound stopped him then – that low, moaning sound of life that came from inside the dark spaces all around them – making the hairs on Ian’s neck rise; and just like that – in the blink of a fucking eye – the reality of this godforsaken life sent Ian cascading back down to earth.

Darting his gaze upwards out of instinct, Ian glanced at the glass again, wondering just how many of Them were in there, listening, waiting for sunset as the sounds of movement began echoing out with the fading sun – the shifting and crashing and screeching of _things_ being thrown and moved and toppled over as Their time ticked closer…

“No more talking,” Mickey hissed, and Ian nodded at once, his inability to ever question what Mickey said apparently still holding fast and holding strong; besides, he didn’t need to be told twice.

Turning on his heel, Ian headed quickly towards Willis Tower, taking the back alleys and shortcuts he had memorized as the serotonin in his brain from their _meet cute_ fell away into the background, allowing the adrenaline to take over as Ian steered them both towards safety in the oncoming night.

~

“Fuckin’ Christ, you weren’t kiddin’,” Mickey panted, dropping his backpack onto the landing on the 89th floor, the sound echoing out through the empty stairwell as he hunched over to rest his hands on his knees in the dark.

“Almost there,” Ian smiled, his own lungs burning, but not as bad as the muscles in his legs from doing this climb twice in one day. “Here, I can take this.” Grabbing Mickey’s backpack, Ian swung it up over his shoulders, the sheer, sudden weight of it almost making him fall backwards against the wall. “Jesus,” he grunted, shifting it so the weight was more evenly distributed before pointing the beam of Mickey’s flashlight back at its owner; he looked like he wanted to argue – to say something snarky, Ian was sure, about carrying his own shit – but he didn’t. “What the fuck is in this thing?”

Another smile crossed Mickey’s face, but this one didn’t reach his eyes.

“My whole fuckin’ life, man.”

It went quiet then – their perfect, comfortable silence returning without the awkward tension – and Ian was somewhat amazed that it still came naturally to them – that being in each other’s presence only made the comfortable more comforting.

“Come on.” Ian tilted his head, motioning for Mickey to follow as he tried to take the stairs two at a time, the heaviness of Mickey’s bag making him think errantly of Mickey’s thighs again and fuck, no wonder they were so _big_...

“You in a hurry, Gallagher?” Mickey called up after him, the annoyed tone of his voice breaking through around his heaving breaths.

“No.” It was a lie, of course; Ian just wanted to get them to the observation deck sooner so he could spend his time in the silence they created together, looking at Mickey for as long as he possibly could while he wasn’t paying attention. “Just want to enjoy the view before sunset.”

“Fuckin’ Hell, Gallagher…” Mickey stood in the entranceway, the strong breeze from Lake Michigan whistling in through the busted glass that only an hour or so before had held Ian’s life in its hands. “You like a stiff breeze while you sleep?”

Watching his face carefully, Ian wondered absently if Mickey would be able to tell what had happened here – before his voice had come back to him through the walkie – but if he had any inkling, his face didn’t show it.

“Yea, it’s a long story.” Ian shrugged, glancing over at his backpack that was still tucked neatly in the corner, along with the radio that was still hissing out static. Walking over to it, Ian crouched down and flicked it off, and he didn’t know if he’d ever feel the need to turn it on again for as long as he was alive; now that Mickey was here, what was the point?

When he stood again, he wasn’t at all surprised to see that Mickey was watching him, his blue eyes raking over Ian’s belongings before they landed briefly on the chocolate bar wrapper, crumpled up and tossed haphazardly on the floor. His dark brows furrowed together for just a second before his gaze finally landed back on Ian, and in that moment – in that soft, quiet look that was saying a million things – Ian knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mickey knew _exactly_ what had happened here, and his heart ached a little because of it.

Those demons were Ian’s to bear, but he’d always assumed he’d have to bear them alone…

“So you sleep up here, huh?” Mickey asked then – clearly changing the subject as he turned away – and Ian was thankful that he didn’t appear to be in the mood to pry.

Kneeling down beside his giant backpack on the floor, Mickey unzipped it, and Ian watched with amusement as he began taking out soup cans one by one and placing them on the floor.

Every single one of them was vegetable.

“Yea,” Ian confessed, forcing himself to look away before he was caught staring. “Only when I have to.” Walking carefully towards the ledge to gaze out at the horizon, Ian crossed his arms over his chest and waited patiently for those familiar voices to come back to him, telling him to be careful – telling him to think about what he was doing – but all there was now was silence, and the sounds of Mickey there beside him.

Mickey.

There; beside him.

“Weren’t planning on staying tonight?” Mickey inquired suddenly, and Ian turned back at the words, reading Mickey’s knuckle tattoos for the hundredth time in the fading glow of the setting sun as he set down two more cans.

“Hmm?”

Mickey glanced around before motioning to Ian’s fairly empty-looking backpack.

“You don’t have a sleeping bag?”

Ian’s eyes went to his things, and he didn’t know in the moment if he wanted to laugh, or cry.

“Oh, uhh, no.” Ian looked quickly back out at the horizon, swallowing the emotions that tried to claw their way up his throat as he eyed that same ship that had been drifting lazily on the lake for longer than he cared to remember. “Wasn’t planning on staying around this late.”

Ian didn’t need to explain further; Mickey obviously knew without needing to hear the words.

“I have an extra,” Mickey admitted then – the words and the gesture making the heat in Ian’s chest return suddenly – and he turned to face Mickey yet again, watching as those weathered hands dug down to the bottom of his backpack before pulling out a blanket that was neatly folded in a way that looked weird – looked too stiff to be normal, like something was wrapped up inside it.

When Mickey looked up finally – his eyes finding Ian’s at once – Ian was sure he saw Mickey blush a little before he hastily removed some sort of book from the confines of the blanket and shoved it carefully back into his bag, his eyes darting around the room as if embarrassed Ian had even seen it.

It made that same heat rise up into Ian’s own cheeks, because shy Mickey was cuter than he had any fucking right to be.

“You embarrassed about reading?” Ian tried to joke, more so trying to break the awkward tension that had suddenly returned tenfold as they sat alone, together at the top of the world in the growing dark with Mickey’s _whole fuckin’ life_ being displayed on a cold stone floor.

“Fuck no man, it’s uhh…” Mickey trailed off, and Ian would have been annoyed by all their stammering if it weren’t for the immense joy he was finding at being reminded of the time when they first started talking, which somehow seemed like a lifetime ago. “It’s not a book.” Mickey sniffed in the quiet, thumb scratching absently along his eyebrow again. Ian wanted to point it out, but he stopped himself, not wanting to push Mickey further than he meant to.

“Looked like a book.”

“Well, it’s not.” Mickey shifted himself back to sit against the wall.

“Okay.” Despite the solitude and lack of interaction for the past two years, Ian still knew how to take a hint; so he followed suit, walking over to the opposite wall –across from Mickey – and slinking down onto the floor, the chilly marble making him shiver as the sun disappeared behind the neighbouring buildings, casting them both in shadow.

“You talk more in person than you do over the fuckin’ walkie, you know that?” Mickey spat, and now that they _were_ in person, Ian could see that there was a hint of genuine annoyance from the way Mickey’s forehead tightened.

Fuck, Ian loved that more than anything.

“Sorry.”

“Whatever, it’s just a sketchbook.” Mickey grabbed a can of soup and reached for his thigh, pulling free a knife that was so massive Ian was surprised he hadn’t noticed it before.

Then again, he’d been too busy _looking_ to truly see.

“You draw?” Ian asked, and he could hear the surprise in his own voice; but he didn’t know why that should surprise him.

Mickey just shrugged without answering, his knife glinting a little in the half-light as he set the can onto the floor in front of his crossed legs and held the tip of the blade above it, turning it slightly to get the right angle.

“Stop!” Ian barked – just as Mickey was about to jam his knife into the metal – and Mickey did, the knife hovering over the can as he shot Ian another annoyed look, eyebrows nearly hitting the ceiling. “I have a can opener,” Ian admitted, leaning over to fish it out of the front pocket of his bag. “You’ll fuck up your knife doing that.”

Mickey still didn’t say anything, he just slid his knife back into the sheath around his thigh before catching the can opener Ian tossed in his direction.

“Thanks.”

“You just gunna eat it cold out of the can?”

“You see a fuckin’ stove around here?”

“Yea, actually.” Ian smiled and stood, heading towards the exit door, and it wasn’t lost on him the way Mickey’s gaze followed him out of the room. “Hang on a sec.”

It had been Lip’s idea to keep their _safe house_ stocked with supplies – just in case – and Ian tried not to remember their constant bickering as they’d hauled it all up bit by bit while he skipped down the stairs to the floor below, opening the metal door to find their stuff sitting just as neatly as the day it had been put there, if maybe a little dustier.

Grabbing one of the water jugs, Ian removed the cap and lifted it, arms straining under the weight as he gulped down more than he probably should, a few stray droplets escaping out the side of his mouth and trailing down to the neck of his shirt; he hadn’t realized just how dry his mouth had become until the water was already past his lips.

“Fuck,” he sighed, wiping at his neck – wiping away the water, the sweat – before returning the jug to its rightful place and pulling the camping burner and a small can of propane out from where they were lodged behind a box of canned food.

Glancing over everything quickly, Ian did a quick mental calculation for nothing more than his own sanity before heading back up the stairs, locking the chain on the emergency door behind him as he went.

“Here,” he said as he re-entered the viewing deck, where Mickey was still sitting, open soup can in hand. “At least warm that shit up.” Walking across the room, Ian knelt, and set the burner up nearer the window, keeping far enough away from the edge that he wasn’t reminded of his _almost_ mistake.

“What else you got stashed around here?” Mickey’s voice was amused as he stood and strolled slowly over to where Ian fiddled in the twilight.

“Enough.”

“I can see that. Here.” Mickey knelt down beside him suddenly, their shoulders brushing together just as Ian flicked the burner to life, and Ian’s breath hitched in his throat then at the sudden contact, the blood within him rushing so quickly throughout his body that all he could hear was his heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

Ian swallowed, the small blue flames in front of them creating a burst of heat that matched the one that sparked against his skin where their bodies touched, and that one little thing – that one little whispering of fabric – threw Ian entirely, his whole fucking world suddenly shifting on its axis.

Closing his eyes as his stomach danced, Ian breathed, and he breathed, and he wanted absolutely nothing more than to press further into Mickey in that moment – press further against him to be absolutely certain of _something_ – and he felt the sting of tears behind his eyes as he remembered all at once just how it felt to be touched.

How good it felt to not be alone…

“Hey,” Mickey whispered suddenly, causing Ian’s eyes to flutter back open instantly, and he was met with Mickey’s blue ones a few inches from his face, staring back at him with a look Ian had never known before. “You okay?”

_No Mickey, I’m fucked, remember?_

How many times had he wanted to say those words?

How many times had he wished he didn’t _have_ to bear those demons alone?

_Fuck it._

“No,” Ian admitted then, those tears threatening as the truth finally tumbled unwillingly outwards, taking with it a massive chunk of his walls and allowing the sunlight to seep into his darkness.

_No._

Two years with nothing – with nobody – and there it was: _No_.

It was like a breath of fresh air after too long underground.

It was so simple; but so inexplicably, profoundly complicated.

It was everything.

In one word.

To one person.

Mickey held his gaze for a moment – his face going soft in the flicker of the flames like somehow he understood without actually needing to hear an explanation – before he nodded quietly and turned away, breaking their momentary trance as he placed the open can directly onto the burner over the flames.

It felt like a metaphor – Ian opening himself up, throwing himself headfirst into the inferno, hoping Mickey would be there to make sure he didn’t burn himself alive.

“I heard you once,” Mickey said then, scratching at the tip of his nose before pulling a spoon from somewhere Ian didn’t notice.

There could be a thousand things Mickey meant by that, but for some reason Ian felt his chest tighten at the words like he knew what was coming, and he sat back hard onto the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest as he watched his newfound sun stir his vegetable soup.

“Whatta you mean?”

Turning his head, Mickey glanced out at the horizon, the strong breeze abating a bit as night fell upon them slowly, causing the blue flames to flicker and his black hair to brush against his jaw.

“That night when the Ghosts came for you,” he said, his voice quiet but sure. “I dunno, I guess you must have fallen asleep or something but, I kept my walkie on, just in case y’know?” Mickey looked back at him then in the half-light, and Ian noticed the way he wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Yea, and?”

“You were yelling,” Mickey admitted finally, letting his eyes fall back onto his dinner as he stirred and stirred, lulling them both into a calmness that was out of place in this chaotic world. “I think you must have accidentally rolled onto the walkie or something, hit the button…”

Panic started working its way out from Ian’s chest then as he remembered his night in the bathtub, and it sent a roiling wave of nausea up through his stomach and into his throat.

_Fuck_.

“You umm…” Ian trailed off, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You heard me dreaming?” Ian had obviously never heard himself at night – had never heard what he sounded like when he _remembered_ – but he had awoken enough times to hear himself screaming into the darkness that he got the idea that it probably wasn’t all that pleasant.

A soft snort escaped Mickey’s nose at that and a smile played at the edges of his lips, the sight and sound of it quelling that nausea in Ian’s chest, just like it always had.

Together or apart, Mickey’s laugh always seemed to settle Ian into calm.

“I wouldn’t call that dreaming,” Mickey confessed, hissing out a cuss word as he grabbed onto the can to shift it, burning himself in the process. “More like a fucking nightmare.”

“Memories, actually.” Smiling to himself despite the truth of it, Ian rested his head against his knees, hiding his grin from Mickey in the crook of his elbow as he watched him like it was the only thing he was born to do.

There were a lot of things he wanted to tell Mickey right now – the truth being at the forefront of his mind – because if they were going to do this together, here at the end of the world, Mickey deserved honesty, did he not?

“Yea well, I wanted to wake you up,” Mickey admitted, eyes darting quickly to Ian’s hidden smile before flicking back to his soup. “But you were lying on the button, holdin’ the fuckin’ line open and I couldn’t.”

That truth made Ian’s heart squeeze inside his ribs; made it flip over and dance amongst the wings of the butterflies.

“You worryin’ about me, Mickey Milkovich?” Ian teased, and buried his smile even deeper into his elbow then as Mickey flipped him the bird, a scarred middle finger with a black dash inked into it held up like a beacon.

Something about the gesture made a sudden twinge of guilt pinch Ian’s nerves then, causing the smile on his lips to slip away. Keeping his secrets from Mickey for this long had always seemed like a self-preservation tactic more than anything – like by feigning normalcy, he was simply giving himself a better chance at being accepted; but now – as he stared at Mickey’s profile carved out sharply against the backdrop of the great wide world beyond – Ian couldn’t help but feel like he had trapped Mickey somehow – like he had betrayed him; because if Mickey had been looking for an ally – a sane, level-headed partner with the strength to help him navigate this world – Ian thought he was probably the worst person to be stuck with, and it was something he should have admitted to weeks ago.

“Listen Mick,” he started, clearing his throat as he worked up the courage to confess just what it was Mickey had gotten himself into. “I’m not…”

“Stop.” Mickey glared at him, pulling a pair of fingerless gloves out from the back pocket of his pants before sliding them onto his hands and flicking off the burner, steam wafting upwards from the top of the can. “I don’t need to know right now. Fuck all that shit.”

Ian bit hard into his tongue.

“But…”

“No.” Mickey leveled him with a gaze that made Ian snap his mouth shut. “Fuck all that shit, okay?”

Nodding into his arm, Ian lifted his face and set his chin on his knee, finally letting Mickey see his smile as he wondered absently just what the fuck Mickey had heard that night over the radio.

“Okay. Fuck all that shit.”

“Good.”

“For now,” Ian added, making it clear that he did fully intend to tell Mickey everything, when the time was right.

Grabbing the scalding can up into his gloved hands then, Mickey grinned a shit-eating grin in Ian’s direction and shifted himself back, sitting up against the edge of the broken glass, and his sudden nearness to the precipice made Ian’s heart squeeze as he ate precariously near the edge of the sky.

“So. Ian, huh?” Mickey said suddenly, blowing gently on a spoonful of soup before shoveling it unceremoniously into his mouth, a look of utter contentment crossing his face as the broth hit his taste buds.

Something about it reminded Ian of Lip, and he had to chew the inside of his cheek to keep from falling apart.

“Yea, Mickey,” Ian chuckled instead, shaking the image of his brother from his head as he scooted forward on his ass then, shuffling himself towards the open air. “Ian Gallagher.” As he neared the edge and peered over, Ian’s palms began to sweat, the memory of dangling off and nearly losing everything flashing briefly in his mind.

“Yea well, be careful, _Ian_ ,” Mickey warned, watching Ian with a look of wariness as he inched himself that last half-foot and let his legs slip off the ledge.

Absently, Ian wondered if Mickey was waiting for him to just let go completely and actually take the plunge.

“I’m always careful, _Mickey_.” That was a lie.

Across from him, the glass of an office tower glowed purple as the sun finally kissed the edge of the horizon; instinctively, Ian leaned forward a hair, looking carefully down at the streets below, watching as the long shadows swallowed the ground up and painted it in darkness.

They’d be coming soon.

“From the state of your shirt,” Mickey snorted then, the sound of his spoon scraping against the metal can filling Ian with an odd sense of peace as it pulled him from his reverie. “I’d say _always_ is a bad choice of word for you.”

At his words, Ian glanced down at his shirt for the first time since leaving his house, and was surprised to see what looked like blood staining the white fabric near the top of his abdomen, and dark black smudges of dirt and rusted metal where his stomach had scraped along the floor as he’d tried to haul himself up.

“Shit.” Ian lifted his shirt up, trying to find the source of the blood, but was barely able to see his pale skin in the waning light.

“Here.” Mickey leaned over, handing him his flashlight again, and Ian wasn’t sure if Mickey purposefully held on for a second too long or not, their fingers brushing together in the quiet.

“Thanks.” Flicking on the flashlight, Ian aimed it at his stomach, the yellow beam giving his white body a sickly, jaundiced look that made Ian’s skin go cold for just a moment before he remembered he couldn’t catch it.

There was blood seeping from a deep gash where his gun had dug into his sternum when his body had slammed against the floor – when he had turned at the last minute and held on for dear life. There was also the dark, purple swelling of a bruise that was already well on its way to forming around it.

How the Hell he hadn’t felt any of it, Ian wasn’t sure; maybe he’d just been too preoccupied with the good to notice the bad – maybe his adrenaline had just been way too high; but now that he was aware of it, a deep, throbbing ache pulsed along his chest, making him wince a little when he breathed too deep.

“Did a real fuckin’ number on yourself,” Mickey huffed, his blue eyes trailing languidly over Ian’s exposed stomach as he sucked on his spoon, the words and the action making Ian’s thighs go warm before Mickey noticed him looking and glanced quickly away, tossing his now-empty can haphazardly out of the busted window.

They both leaned forward a bit – watching as the can glinted in the last rays of the sun before it sunk down into the shadows below – and waited for a few seconds until the small, distinct sound of metal hitting pavement echoed up to their ears, and that tiny disturbance in the silence was apparently all it took.

The screaming started then, that wave of chaos and noise that was all-too-familiar crashing into them from the darkness below, and the wailing cries of a thousand people torn between agony and rage made Ian’s blood run cold, but not as much as the soft, thudding sound of all their feet hitting the pavement at once as they poured out into the night like locusts did.

Ian let his shirt fall from his hands at once as he scrambled back from the ledge, flicking off the flashlight and enshrouding them both in darkness as his eyes searched out Mickey automatically, like his body was already hardwired to seek out the one thing that could keep him safe.

Mickey stood slowly from his place on the floor, his gaze focused down towards the ground as the last light of the sun disappeared, and the Ghosts came out to haunt them.

“Fuck,” Mickey whispered, so low that Ian could barely hear him over the sounds of Them. “There’s way more of them here than in Minneapolis.”

“I know.”

“You locked the doors?” He looked back at Ian, all signs of easiness and teasing completely gone from his features, leaving only a calm, stoic look of determination that was hindered slightly by furrowed brows that betrayed a hint of fear.

“Yea, main doors and the stairwell exit.”

“Good.” Mickey turned then and strode towards his backpack, untying his rifle from the front before taking out the magazine to double-check it with an expert ease that made Ian feel the tiniest bit safer than was probably logical, and maybe also made his skin tingle to life. “You only got that one?” Mickey asked, motioning to the gun strapped to Ian’s chest.

“Yea.”

Nodding, Mickey slid the clip back into place and grabbed another magazine from his bag, laying it gently on the floor for backup, just in case.

“I’ll take first watch tonight,” he said – more of a statement than a question – but it caused that familiar, unwelcome tightness to return suddenly to Ian’s chest then in an instant, and he could feel the flashback right there on the edges of his memory: Lip, sitting up in the darkness, asking if Ian wanted him to take the first watch that night…

_Fuck._

_No._

_Not right now._

Leaning forward, Ian braced his hands on his knees as he tried to fight it off; he couldn’t allow it to take hold of him right now. Not in the darkness in the city. Not in front of Mickey.

“One, two, three, four,” he whispered, sucking in a breath as quietly as he could as his fingers dug into his kneecaps so hard he was sure he’d have more bruises come morning. “Five six, seven, eight…”

“Hey, Ian?” Mickey’s voice cut through the memory and the screams below suddenly like a warm knife through melted butter. Ian’s eyes flew open at the cadence, his shaky gaze landing on his dark haired stranger, who was somehow now standing directly in front of him. “Don’t leave me right now, man,” Mickey said – voice softer than Ian had ever heard it – and Ian wasn’t exactly sure how Mickey knew that he had been on his way to another place – another time – but he didn’t altogether care.

“Okay.” Ian stood, nodding absently as he unholstered his gun from his chest with trembling hands and a final, deep breath. “Okay, Mick. I’m here.”

~

Ian wasn’t sure how long they sat facing each other there in the darkness, Mickey on one side of the room – his back up against the wall with his rifle in his lap – and Ian on the other, sitting cross-legged as he spun his gun around and around on the floor beside him.

It was nearly pitch black, with nothing but the glow of a waxing crescent moon seeping in around them. It was faint, but that light was enough to cast the angles of Mickey’s face in a white-blue glow, and Ian could see the way his shadowed eyes would occasionally drift to the open window as the sounds below ebbed and flowed, before his gaze would flicker back towards the entranceway, as if he was expecting the Ghosts to just appear out of nowhere.

Sometimes though, those eyes would land on Ian, and he would stare unblinking back at Mickey for just a moment in the emptiness before turning his face away, like by not looking at him, Ian could hide the way his heart beat faster in his chest…

And sometimes – even after Ian had turned away – Mickey’s eyes would stay locked onto him, and Ian could feel their heat in his peripherals like sparks in a midnight sky.

Right now though, that intense gaze was focused on the locked chains of the exit door.

“They can’t get in here,” Ian reassured, breaking the silence that had been there for God knows how long as he followed Mickey’s gaze to the door. “They’ve never managed it once in over two years.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past Them, Gallagher,” Mickey sighed, and the way he said it made Ian’s hairs rise as he remembered the Ghost from the field, its clouded eyes hazy in the sun. “Not anymore.”

“I haven’t seen another one.” Ian shifted himself, extending his legs outwards to try and stop the pins and needles. “Since that day I mean. Out in the sun like that…”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Abruptly and without warning, the screaming outside stopped, and the world went eerily quiet as the hushed, muffled sounds of footsteps and groans echoed upwards instead. Closing his eyes to it, Ian leaned his head back against the wall and tried to ignore the queasiness that turned his stomach.

He knew what the silence meant.

“Must’ve found something to eat,” he observed absently, his thoughts drifting suddenly to the deer, and he hoped absently that it wasn’t her, even though he knew she was probably at home, safe in South Side like he was supposed to be.

“Probably eating each other.”

Ian’s head snapped back up at that and he eyed Mickey, the words catching him completely off guard.

“What?”

“That’s what I meant,” Mickey confessed, crossing his ankles out in front of him as he tried to get comfortable. “When I said I wouldn’t put it past Them. I’ve seen Them do things that They never used to do.”

Goosebumps worked their way over Ian’s skin then in the darkness, and he saw his hairs rise again in the moonlight.

“You’ve seen them eat each other?”

“Mmm,” Mickey hummed in confirmation, his eyes drifting closed as he rested his head back against the stone. “Few months back.”

That truth made Ian wary and uneasy in a way he hadn’t been in a long, long time, and he pulled his legs back up against his chest instinctively, trying to feel some sense of comfort and security as he stared back at the man across from him.

“So, they’re changing?” he asked, unsure why he thought Mickey would have all the answers.

Across the room, Mickey lifted his head and opened his eyes, meeting Ian’s gaze then and holding it like he was trying to pass some sort of comfort from his body to Ian’s with nothing more than a look.

It worked. Ian felt the arms wrapped around his knees loosen slightly.

“Not changing,” Mickey said, never once breaking eye contact. “Evolving.”

It was a confirmation of everything Ian had been thinking since that day in the sun; and he didn’t know how he knew it – Hell, he didn’t know how _Mickey_ knew it – but they did.

Maybe it was only logical.

The world would always fuck them over in the end.

“I’m umm,” Ian sniffed, the words coming out way softer than he meant them to before he stopped himself, suddenly feeling way too exposed to finish that sentence.

“You’re what?” Mickey’s voice was just as quiet, though Ian was sure it was only because of the darkness and the Ghosts that haunted the shadows and nothing more.

Swallowing, Ian looked back out at the night sky, silently counting the stars that were being reflected back in the dark surface of the water.

“I’m happy you’re here,” he whispered - though what he'd wanted to say was: _I'm happy I didn't die before I met you_ \- but there it was anyways: the simple truth of it.

_Take from it what you will, Mickey_ , Ian thought, and smiled softly to himself as he watched the lake dance. Mickey could think Ian was soft, or he could think Ian was vulnerable; Mickey could think Ian was sensitive, or he could think Ian was broken; but whatever he chose to think, it was Ian’s truth, and Mickey deserved to hear it, just as much as Ian deserved to say it.

After everything.

That comfortable silence that only belonged to them settled down around them then, enfolding Ian in a warm blanket that felt like safety – that felt like home – and Ian wondered if Mickey could feel it, too, or if it was all just inside his mind, as most things were these days.

If he closed his eyes then, Ian knew he could pretend that he was back on the walkie, impatiently waiting for Mickey’s voice to come through and fill him up with feelings that had long been absent from his life. But Ian didn’t have to close his eyes anymore; instead, he kept them open and turned his head, looking into dark, sapphire eyes that stared back at him as if maybe – just maybe – Ian wasn’t the only one who’d needed to be saved.

“Get some sleep,” Mickey said then, breaking through the quiet and the moment before reaching for his sleeping bag and tossing it across the room where it landed in pile at Ian’s feet. “I’ll wake you up in a bit for second watch,”

Nothing else needed to be said that night; so Ian simply nodded – swallowing all the other words that wanted to come tumbling forwards – before spreading the sleeping bag out on the floor and climbing inside, ensuring he turned his back to Mickey and faced the wall; because if he didn’t, Ian knew he’d spend the rest of the night staring at his dark-haired stranger in the white light of the moon, not wanting to fall asleep because he was sure that if he did, he’d wake in the morning to find that it all had been a dream, and that space against the wall would be empty, not a trace of beauty or life to be found amongst the stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is:  
> First Day of My Life by Bright Eyes  
> (It's perfect and makes me cry after this chapter)
> 
> -Be back in a week or two! I appreciate all of you, and your patience more than anything!


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